


Bewitched

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Category: Bewitched, James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months after the Skyfall incident, Q's sister gives him the excuse he needs to finally take a last-minute holiday at her cottage in Wales, but a priority two security threat means Q can't go alone.</p><p>For James Bond, the choice between a visit to Psych to discuss overwork or two weeks in the countryside is no choice at all — especially not with the lure of his enigmatic young Quartermaster as a companion.</p><p>Then again, 'enigmatic' doesn't even begin to cover the truth of who the Quartermaster really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jennybel75](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennybel75/gifts).



> This story was inspired by Jennybel75 in [this post](http://jennybel75.tumblr.com/post/49997960890/pati79-edenmariecat-that-little-twitchy).
> 
> Special thanks to our beta team, Jennybel75, stephrc79, and rayvanfox for lovely feedback. We couldn't have done it without you guys!

**Monday, 29 April 2013**

“A holiday in Wales? Who holidays in bloody _Wales_?” Alec asked, his voice made tinny by the terrible mobile reception. “Tell him to stuff Wales and go somewhere decent, like Spain.”

“It’s not _my_ holiday,” Bond pointed out reasonably, watching the stairs as he made his way down past a flickering light. “And it’s better than spending time somewhere hot _and_ soggy. New Orleans, for one.”

“You’re mad. I love New Orleans.”

“No, you love the one-night stands in New Orleans. Let’s be clear about that.”

“And you don’t?”

Bond grinned. “Look, if you don’t manage to get shot in the field, just stop by my flat and make certain nothing’s caught fire. We’re apparently leaving tonight.”

“A little last-minute, isn’t it?”

“I’ve no idea how Q got Mallory to agree to let him just walk out at the start of a work week, but there you have it.” Bond shrugged and pushed open the door to the Q Branch offices. While most of MI6 had migrated back aboveground once the damage had been repaired two months back, Q Branch had remained in the old bunkers and tunnels, spreading out like a secret cult plotting to take over London. Given the firepower they had at their disposal, Bond was determined to be on the winning side and not piss off Q and his minions.

“Fine. But I’m not watering your plants. I kill plants, remember?”

“They’re all dead. Gone for two and a half months, remember?” Bond countered. “Just bin them. And god, anything in the fridge.”

“I’m not cleaning your bloody fridge!”

“Last time I had to watch your flat, I did your fucking laundry.”

“That’s because you broke your washer and needed to use mine.”

“Yours had fur growing inside, Alec. As much bleach as I used on your washer, you can use on my damned fridge.”

“Which is why I never _use_ my washer anymore. I dry clean everything — and so do you, you lazy bastard. You actually use your fridge — which isn’t my fault. Learn the virtues of takeaway.”

“God, how did you survive past school? I’m here now. Ringing off. Don’t die.”

“Don’t get eaten by a sheep,” Alec said, and disconnected.

Bond grinned and pocketed his mobile. Unlike the rest of the executives, Q had an office with a great glass wall overlooking the area where his team leads worked. Rumour had it that he’d snowballed Mallory with words like ‘collaborative space’ and ‘team synergy’, and Mallory had approved his remodelling budget without a single question asked. Whatever he’d done, he’d managed to create a work environment that was actually pleasant for a private business and unheard-of for a government facility.

It probably meant that he was a traitor, criminal, or evil cult leader. Again, though, Bond decided that he’d happily join an evil cult if he could get an office down here. The Double O’s were relegated to tiny little cupboards on the third floor, by the gym. The only windows he ever saw, while at the office, were the ones in the hallways.

Before opening the office door, he looked inside, for the first time actually paying attention to the new Quartermaster. Every instinct Bond had was still warning him that Q was too young for the job, but he’d earned his rank in the Silva incident. He’d barely changed, though — still wearing youthfully fashionable checked trousers to contrast with a sombre white button-down and the most bland blue tie imaginable. Still with that silly, pettable haircut, fringe hanging down over his glasses. Bond couldn’t help but wonder what he’d look like on holiday. He couldn’t picture Q hiking or sunbathing. He’d probably spend the whole time lurking inside with his nose glued to an e-reader.

“Whatever you’re doing, no.”

Bond turned and looked back, immediately assuming a wounded, innocent expression. Danielle Marsh was the only person left at MI6 who could intimidate him, now that M was gone, and he’d be damned if he showed it. “Danielle, you’re looking lovely as always,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

She stopped him with a fingertip to the forehead. “No. Whatever you want, whatever you’re doing, the answer —”

“Is no. Yes, I understand, but I’m here on Mallory’s business,” he said, giving her his most charming grin. It never worked, but it was second-nature to try.

Her eyes narrowed, and she tipped her head down to look at him over her narrow reading glasses. “If it’s a kit request, bring it to your team lead. If it’s a weapon, bring it to the armoury.”

“It’s the Quartermaster, actually. I’m to bring him to Wales.”

That made her blink in surprise. “ _You?_ ” she asked incredulously. “ _You’re_ the security detail Mallory’s chosen?”

“Mandatory post-mission downtime from the field. Apparently, Wales doesn’t count as ‘the field’,” he said a bit smugly. “And since Q’s arranged this last-minute holiday —”

“No,” she cut in, waggling her finger at him. “I know how you are when you’re ‘on holiday’, 007. If you’re a bodyguard, fine. Guard him from a distance. I want you more than three metres from him at all times.”

Bond blinked at her. “Sorry?”

“Oh, don’t give me that innocent look. When you and that co-conspirator of yours are on holiday, you’ll go sniffing at anything that moves. And just because Q plays both sides of the fence doesn’t give you a right —”

“Does he?” Bond asked, wondering if the holiday in Wales had just got much less boring.

He started to turn, only to have one ear seized and twisted until he turned back around to face Danielle. “No. _Not_ with you, 007. He’s an excellent quartermaster, a top-notch leader, and if you break his heart, I will cut yours out and make you eat it.”

“Physically challenging, though not impossible, if you’re fast enough. Ow,” he remarked when she pinched. With fingernails.

She let go and pointed a threatening finger at him again. “Keep your distance.”

Sometimes, surrender was the better option. After all, how many armies had waved white flags, only to turn surrender into victory later? So he ducked his head, looking properly abashed, and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

 

~~~

 

Q stood over his projects workspace, staring down, telling himself it was good enough. He’d been in an odd loop of inefficiency that he couldn’t seem to stop despite himself — desktop computer sleeping and locked but not off so he could access it from Wales; all components and bits and pieces put away neatly in boxes; all potentially lethal projects returned to R&D all personal items secured in his rucksack and ready for transport.

Everything was fine the second time he’d completed the circuit, and nothing had changed, but he still couldn’t seem to stop himself from checking everything again. For the tenth time.

“Perhaps I’m having trouble letting go,” he said quietly as he forcefully stopped himself.

“You need a holiday,” his sister whispered in his ear out of nowhere. Not one to bother with such things as security clearance or even a train to London, Tabitha simply appeared in Q’s office.

Well, not quite _appeared_. She was invisible to everyone but Q.

After growing up in a family that rarely bothered to knock, Q didn’t even flinch. “Less than three months as Quartermaster,” he reminded her.

Tabitha snorted. “Stop circling like a puppy who can’t remember where he buried his chew toy,” she scolded. “You’re fine. You didn’t forget anything. Or are you just avoiding the cats?”

“Eight,” Q said with a sigh. “I know you enjoy this blending with the humans kick you’re on, but did you _really_ have to go with the crazy cat lady stereotype?”

“Adam,” Tabitha said with a huff. “Nerd chic isn’t any better.”

Q huffed and turned to glare at her, lines of sight into his transparent office be damned.  “And sheep. _Sheep_. What am I supposed to do with those?”

“It’s only two weeks,” Tabitha said with a sigh. “Even if you forget to feed them, they’ll be fine.”

“As if I would,” Q said, rolling his eyes.

A knock on the door cut off Tabitha’s response. The door opened, and Q looked up, expecting Danielle or one of the team leads with one more last-minute question or crisis.

But it was one of the field agents who walked in — James Bond, actually, which made Q brace instinctively against the news of whatever disaster he’d caused this time. He smiled, charming bastard that he was, and crossed the office as if he belonged there. “Quartermaster. When do we leave?”

“Oh, _yummy_ ,” Tabitha whispered behind Q, her breath tickling his ear annoyingly. Q twitched and covered a swat under the guise of tucking his hair back behind his ear.

“We?” he asked with distracted annoyance.

Tabitha snickered. “Oh, brother mine. No wonder you don’t want to leave.”

Unaware of the invisible sister standing behind Q, Bond leaned against the workstation like a model between photographs. “Apparently there’s a minor security threat, so Mallory’s asked me to pop over to Wales with you, just to be certain you’re safe.” His grin turned sheepish as he added, “It’s that or mandatory psych counselling due to overwork. I do hope you won’t condemn me to that.”

“He’s probably a liar, but a genius of one,” Tabitha approved. “And those legs of his make up for it, I think.”

Q couldn’t help spinning and glaring at her again — if only to help hide the way he’d instinctively looked down at the legs in question. “Torture,” he muttered, then bent to pick up his now overfull bag. Tabitha snickered.

“Sorry, what was that?” Bond asked, picking up a multimeter.

“Torture, sending anyone to Psych,” Q clarified before he dashed forward to take the multimeter away before Bond could either break it or figure out just how deadly it could be. “Sorry, are you just driving out there and dropping me off, then?”

“And leave you to get mobbed by marauding sheep? Sorry, Quartermaster. You’re stuck with me for the whole two weeks. I’m happy to drive, however. I should take my car out and break in the engine properly.”

“In that case, I revoke my invitation to sleep in my bed,” Tabitha chuckled. “It squeaks and sets off the owls and the cats. The iron one in the guest bedroom — _much_ more sturdy. With the added benefit of bars to —”

“All right, then!” Q interrupted a bit more loudly and enthusiastically than Bond’s statement strictly required. “I was just going to ride my motorbike, so taking your car instead is probably wise.” Q resolutely didn’t look at Tabitha, though he did pull a sheet of paper from his scratchpad to crinkle it into a perfectly usable paper-based missile. “Are you staying at a hotel, then? There isn’t much in the not-exactly-a-town my sister lives near.”

“Security threat, remember? It’s only grade two, but we can’t take chances with our most valuable exec. If you were Jensen in Accounting, it’d be another story,” Bond said wryly. “I can’t very well bodyguard you from across the village.”

“Bodyguard,” Q repeated, staring at Bond, letting his words finally override Tabitha’s. “Wait. Who authorised this?”

“I wonder if Mother had a hand in it,” Tabitha mused. “She’s been saying you need to relax.”

“Mallory,” Bond answered over Tabitha’s soft voice. “This _was_ a last-minute idea of yours, you have to admit. He didn’t even tell me where we’re going, other than Wales. Hopefully you have better directions than that.”

“My sister’s. She decided at the last minute to go on holiday, and she needs me to keep an eye on things.” He narrowed his eyes at Bond. “Is it going to be worth my time to argue?”

“Really, Quartermaster, what makes you think I’d choose to spend time with the vultures lurking in Medical rather than with you?” Bond asked slyly. “Besides, I haven’t had a proper holiday in ages — not while I was alive, anyway. I’m positive we can find something fun to do, even in Wales.”

“Oooh, he’s good,” Tabitha approved. “Don’t argue. Take him with you. I wonder if he does massages.” She stepped around Q and walked next to Bond, and Q watched her with some alarm. “Think I should ask?”

“I...” Q started, wishing he were a good enough shot with the paper to not hit Bond. He stared at Tabitha, running through calculations regarding his probable success rate trying to negotiate with Mallory.  His sister’s cottage was lovely but definitely not designed for mortals to spend any time in. There was a lot of subtle magic that wouldn’t be lost on someone as observant as a Double O — not the least of which was the odd behaviour of two of the eight cats, who were once uncles.

Bond touched Q’s arm, startling him. “All right there, Q?” he asked, reaching out to take Q’s bag. “Let me take that for you.”

“I can’t imagine that you’d actually want to go,” Q tried, though his calculations weren’t adding up in his favour. If there was a threat, Mallory wouldn’t let him go at all if he didn’t take an agent. And better Bond, he supposed, than any of the other agents. At least he’d won respect from Bond during the Skyfall incident — though the other agents respected him on a generic level, he’d had enough personal contact with Bond to know that at least they’d get along (more or less) on a personal level. “There is absolutely nothing to do there. It’s a cottage. With cats. And sheep. And lumpy blankets.”

“Hey!” Tabitha shouted indignantly, capturing Q’s attention again. “ _You_ try spinning your own wool. It’s hard work!”

“Ah, I _knew_ the sheep would come into play,” Bond said with a little laugh, taking the bag off Q’s shoulder. “Would you mind terribly if we stop at my flat? If we’re facing sheep, I’ll need better kit.”

“Just for the lumpy blanket comment, I’m going to tell Grandmother you’re there all by yourself,” Tabitha snickered. “And I still think I should ask him about massages. Just to plant the idea in his head.”

Between Bond, Tabitha, and nearly three months of high-pressure and endless work, Q had almost no focus left. He was feeling exasperated and annoyed, and there was no convenient outlet for expressing that without getting himself sectioned. Just the _thought_ of his grandmother stopping by while Bond, _James bloody Bond_ , was staying with him at his sister’s cottage was enough to send him into another last-minute check of his office.

“Wait,” Tabitha said with sudden insight, watching Q pointlessly rearrange his workspace. “Does that mean you won’t be able to do any magic? Oh, I take it back. That’s going to _suck_.”

“We can stop at your flat,” Q muttered.

“Thanks. Are you all right?” Bond asked worriedly. “You seem distracted.”

“Distracted. Yes.” Q straightened and looked at Bond. “Just promise you’re not going to blow up my sister’s house if you get bored. Or ask me to entertain you. Or... well, my family is a little strange. Just so you know.”

For the first time, the mask of good humour slipped just a bit. “Your family?” Bond’s smile snapped back into place, this time without quite touching his eyes. “Do I get to meet your family, then?”

“God, I hope not,” Q admitted, opening the door for Bond. “My parents live in the States, so that’s unlikely, if it makes you feel better.”

“The States? Really?” Bond asked, following Q out into the main workspace. “Have they retired there? I can’t picture you visiting Florida or Arizona to see them on holiday.”

Q tugged the door shut behind him, checking the lock out of habit. “I was born there, actually. Connecticut, in fact. We, uh, moved here when I was young,” he said absently as Tabitha, unfortunately, didn’t vanish but followed them through the wall like a ghost.

Tabitha snickered. “Young, right. I wonder how he would feel if he found out you’re at least as old as he is.”

“Ah, are your parents British?” Bond asked, ignoring the warning glare that Danielle shot his way, though Q was certain that he caught it. “I’d imagine the Americans would snap you up, given half the chance.”

“No. And I have no interest in working for an American intelligence agency,” he said with a derisive snort. He had, in fact, worked for the NSA for a while, but it was one of the most stressful and least rewarding experiences of his life. “What kind of car do you drive?”

“I couldn’t exactly replace my Aston Martin,” Bond said regretfully, “so I picked up a little Audi Roadster for now, until I can find something that suits me. Feel free to suggest any modifications.”

 _That_ distracted Q thoroughly. “Oh. Oh yes. That might just be the thing that gets me through two weeks in Wales,” he said gleefully, thinking about all the possibilities. Tabitha’s cottage wasn’t exactly well equipped, but it would be an easy thing to have some of the necessary tools and components magicked over before they got there, under the guise of having it delivered.

Tabitha huffed and disappeared in a soundless waver, throwing a “Love you, brother,” behind her as she vanished.

“Weapons, speed, or handling?” Q asked, already concentrating on moving some of his tools from his workshop to the garage at his sister’s.

Bond grinned at Q and leaned in a bit closer, just enough to make his presence felt. “All of the above? Something modular, of course, in case I don’t keep her. I would like another Aston Martin someday, after all.”

Q let himself shiver in response to the unadulterated sex in Bond’s voice. “I’m not a fan of disposable parts,” he said airily, however, waving a dismissive hand. “If you trade up, I’ll buy the roadster off you, and start over with the Aston Martin. If I’m properly motivated, of course,” he said with a smirk.

It was always nice to catch the agents wrong-footed, especially the Double O’s. Impressed, Bond said, “Agreed.” Then he moved a step closer and leaned past Q to open the stairwell door, intentionally brushing his sleeve across Q’s chest. “It’ll be a pleasure working with you, Quartermaster.”

Q laughed quietly, thinking about sheep and cats and his grandmother. “Oh, I hope so.”

 

~~~

 

At some point, ‘temporary’ became ‘permanent’, at least when it came to accommodations. Bond wasn’t quite certain he was there yet, but he suspected it was close.

He’d leased the ‘temporary’ flat on the basis of availability and the fact that it came furnished, thereby saving Bond the trouble of going shopping. More to the point, it saved him from the possibility of Alec ‘helpfully’ going shopping for him. Unfortunately, it didn’t include parking, which inevitably meant a walk in the rain from wherever he managed to find an open kerb, and it was completely unsuitable for entertaining. And given that most of his partners were married — and depending on him to supply a suitable spot for a few hours’ privacy — it meant he was spending far too much time at hotels, to the point where he was just thinking of moving into one of them and letting the flat go. If he was going to pay hotel rates, he might as well live there full-time and have someone to do the laundry for him.

“I won’t be a minute. Make yourself at home, if it’s at all possible,” Bond said, gesturing Q towards the cramped, oddly arranged living room. It was too narrow to properly accommodate the sofa, settee, and two armchairs crammed in there, which meant the telly was stuck to the wall off to one side, not that he ever watched the thing.

Q stood for a moment just at the edge of the living room, looking around. “Huh,” he said, then shrugged, and flopped on the sofa without any hesitation. “Comfy,” he approved, then crossed his arms under his head and closed his eyes. “I’m on holiday,” he said with an almost disbelieving chuckle.

Bond resisted the urge to comb his fingers through Q’s wild hair. “Enjoy it. Oh — and while we’re here, your mobile, please,” he said, leaning deliberately over the back of the sofa and holding out his hand. ‘Both sides of the fence,’ Danielle had said, and though she’d once mentioned something about a previous relationship going badly, Bond was certain that he could get Q to forget all about it, and make the holiday more pleasant for both of them. But first, he’d need to minimise the distractions.

Q cracked an eye open and looked over at Bond curiously. “Why?”

“Because you’re on holiday.” Bond tapped Q’s chest with one finger and gave Q a smile. “It’s your first holiday as an MI6 exec, so you deserve to know, if you’re _at all_ reachable, they’ll drag you back. There’s always one more crisis, one more emergency, one more little question to ask, and that’s no way to spend your holiday, on an electronic leash. Unless you like that sort of thing,” Bond added, hooking a finger under Q’s tie and lifting just enough to give a brief tug.

Q looked at Bond assessingly for a moment, then chuckled again. “I can’t very well say I willingly gave up my mobile, though, can I?” He shifted, flattening himself out with a graceful roll, and closed his eyes again. “Right pocket.”

“Terrible reception in Wales,” Bond teased, leaning down a bit more to brush his hand over Q’s right hip. He slid his hand into Q’s pocket — carefully being polite, for now — and removed the mobile with a little press of his finger over a too-sharp hipbone.

Q hummed and settled back into his comfortable, more curled position. “God, I hope my sister has good internet. Or don’t I? Maybe I don’t. Though I might have to look up specs on the roadster. I can do a pretty good job without instructions — it just slows me down. But we _do_ have a limited time frame.”

“We have all the time in the world afterwards,” Bond pointed out, absently opening the back of the mobile. “We’ll have the relaxing holiday that we’ve earned, and when we’re back here, you’ll have a project to work on and take your mind off those awful budget meetings you have to endure. How does that sound?” He pried the battery out of the mobile.

“Projects in R&D or in the transport lab aren’t nearly as much fun as the ones you do on your own turf,” Q said with a quiet, almost satisfied sigh. “There is no pressure to get it right the first time, no forms to fill out as you go, no band of techs standing behind you with sharp eyes and a hero complex watching every damn twitch of your fingers. It’s just you and the machine and the tools... Have you ever read _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_?”

“You forget who you’re talking to, Quartermaster,” Bond scolded as he dropped the battery in a pocket. “I’m fully capable of scaring off your staff or any paper-pushers who come after you. It can be just you, me, and a lovely sportscar waiting to feel your expert touch.”

Q laughed and lifted himself up off the sofa by his elbows. “And expert it is.” Then he resumed his relaxed position. “Take your time. I’m quite comfortable.”

Pleased that things were looking up, Bond replaced the back on Q’s mobile and brought it with him into the bedroom. He made a mental note to return it to Q after the trip. Or, no. Better idea. He’d ‘forget’ it and then return it to Q at Q Branch the day after, to remind Q about their date in the auto lab. It could be awkward if the holiday went badly, of course, unless he had Alec return it for him. Yes, that would do nicely.

Accustomed to packing suits, it took Bond a little while to gather jeans, T-shirts, and cotton jumpers instead. Q didn’t strike him as the outdoors type, but Bond always enjoyed getting out of doors while visiting the country. After a moment’s debate, he threw in both hiking boots and trainers. Climbing gear was tempting, but he didn’t know what area of Wales they’d be visiting, and he didn’t want to pack for every contingency. Worst case, he could just buy whatever he didn’t pack and have it overnighted if it wasn’t available locally. Really, he should’ve got a look in Q’s bag when they’d left Q Branch, but he hadn’t had the opportunity to properly snoop.

He left the mobile in his bedside table and changed out of his suit. His shoulder holster went into his wardrobe in favour of a paddle holster that would conceal his Walther against his abdomen. It wasn’t comfortable for driving, but he had a holster rigged into his seat, thanks to a sharp razor knife and a bit of duct tape. Q could do better, which was probably a good place to start. A couple of knives went into his pockets, a torch into his bag, and he headed quietly back out to the living room.

“Q?” he asked softly, thinking that if the Quartermaster had fallen asleep, he’d leave him undisturbed, at least for a few hours.

“Hmmm?” Q responded with an absolutely contented hum. “It’s very small here, but quite comfortable. A little bit of creative arrangement and you’d have one hell of a cosy nook.”

Bond set down his bag and went to lean over the sofa once more. Q was sprawled across its length. Without his glasses, his hazel eyes were soft. Bond met his eyes with a grin, admiring the way the afternoon light fell on Q’s face. “I haven’t moved a single thing. The flat came this way. I can’t seem to settle in here. I’m glad you’re comfortable, though.”

“You just need to remove some of the extra furniture, mount the television on the wall, lighten up the walls with some strategic application of light colours.” Q smiled lazily up at Bond, shifting into a stretch. “A bookcase would do a lot of good for the cosy feeling, too, though I suppose it would have to be wall-mounted shelves rather than something that takes up floor space.”

“Just for that, you’re coming with me to find a permanent flat — or to furnish this one, if I buy it from the leasing company,” Bond threatened, matching Q’s smile. “And I’m sorry. I should’ve offered you a drink. I assumed you’d be in a rush to escape London. Can I get you anything?”

“I’m not in a hurry at all. I didn’t want to leave London; this was entirely my sister’s idea.” Q frowned, then shrugged. “But I haven’t been on holiday in ages, so I didn’t bother to argue. The timing isn’t terrible, after all.”

“I was certainly glad to have you at my back two weeks ago, for the job in Belgium,” Bond admitted, folding his arms on the back of the sofa to resist the temptation to touch Q’s throat.  With his head tipped back, hair just brushing the arm of the sofa, Bond couldn’t stop looking. “This is well-deserved for both of us — and not something I’d do for myself, so thank you. And your sister, I suppose?” he hinted, though he had plenty of time to ferret out more of Q’s secrets.

“You know, I actually don’t have any idea why Tabby suddenly decided to vanish for two weeks. I have no idea where she’s going or what she’s up to.” He closed his eyes and tipped his head back just a little further, stretching his neck and baring his throat just a little more. “She tends to do that, though. She calls them walkabouts. Always brings me back something interesting.”

“That’s kind of her.” He finally gave in, brushing the back of one finger up over Q’s pulse to ruffle through his hair. At the first touch, Q’s eyes flew open in surprise, but it took only a moment for them to droop into heavy-lidded contentedness as Bond’s finger combed his hair.  “Did you want that drink, then? I’ve got nearly everything, and I’m more than happy to offer the vodka Alec’s left in my freezer. He always buys the best.”

“Perhaps one drink, with a demonstration of how comfortable your sofa is, and then we should go, because I don’t know how long it takes to drive there. Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“It shouldn’t be more than three or four hours, depending on how far into the wilderness we’re going,” Bond said, going to the awkwardly placed liquor cabinet in the foyer outside the kitchen. Really, he needed to move _anywhere_ with a decent floor plan.

Usually, he drank to sleep after missions — to quiet the nightmares that followed him, or to deal with the aches and pains that were his only souvenirs. It was a novelty to be able to reach for a top shelf bottle for sheer pleasure instead. He poured two glasses and left the bottle out, thinking it couldn’t hurt to take one or two along with them. There was no sense in being a burden on someone else’s hospitality, and he had no idea what would be available in Wales.

He brought both glasses to the sofa and offered one to Q. “We can stop for dinner on the way. If you can wait long enough, there are some excellent restaurants in Cardiff — assuming it’s in our path, of course.”

Q sat up and took the drink, watching Bond with a small smile. “My sister will have something for us at the cabin.” He took a sip and gestured to the space he’d just freed. “Do you like my hair?”

Pleasantly surprised, Bond sat down, turning to face Q. “I do. Very feline,” he added, resting his arm on the back of the couch.

“Excellent,” Q said. Then he shifted so he could lie back down, settling his head in Bond’s lap. “Feel free,” he hinted, settling the glass on his chest. “We’re two adults on holiday. No need to be shy.”

 _Or subtle_ , Bond thought, though without even a hint of irritation. Better to know Q’s interest up front than to waste time with innuendos and misunderstandings. He switched his glass to his other hand so he could brush his fingers through Q’s hair. It was long and soft and absolutely free of all the sticky, crunchy things that were guaranteed to put Bond off, and he smiled in approval. “Absolutely lovely,” he admired. “Remind me to thank Psych for stalking me at just the right time.”

“You won’t thank them,” Q said with a little snort, eyes drifting back shut again under Bond’s caresses. “That would require interacting with them. Giving them more opportunity to see you face-to-face. How about you just fill out your paperwork for them in a timely manner after the next couple of missions? Better than cards or flowers.”

“I was thinking of releasing a pack of rats in their office late one night,” Bond admitted, combing his fingers through Q’s hair. The feeling was soothing, almost hypnotic. He sipped his drink, allowing himself the luxury of enjoying the taste, rather than bolting it down to get the alcohol into his bloodstream more efficiently. “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t watch that footage. I know you have access to the building’s CCTV.”

“Absolutely. Just give me some warning so I can paint all low-lying cables with mustard powder or something. Rats are hell on my tech. Then again, maybe not. That _would_ look awfully suspicious. Perhaps something more subtle. Oh, I know. An automatic launch of Busty Asian Beauties websites every time they tried to open a client file.” Q giggled, then tipped his head up to sip at his drink before settling again. “Or that evil version of Tetris that is impossible to win.”

“That’s right. You took over the IT department,” Bond said, grinning down at Q. His next touch was to Q’s face, tracing the line of his cheekbone before brushing feather-light over his ear. “You’re the one I need to talk to about getting some decent shooting games installed. For new agent training, of course. Reflex enhancement. Or team building — whatever excuse you think sounds best.”

Q chased Bond’s hand by tipping his head and nuzzling into the touch. “I already told Danielle that I’d like to install a surround screen version of _Duck Hunt_ — the Wii version — in one of the conference rooms. I think employee morale is just as valid a reason as reflex enhancement, given what’s happened. I could also throw in something about cross-team bonding, but then the project definitely wouldn’t get approval. Encouraging field agents to interact with techs is widely seen as A Very Bad Idea.”

“And yet,” Bond said, dragging a finger across Q’s lips, “here we are, by Mallory’s orders. Someone must know something we don’t.”

At that, Q’s eyes opened again, and he frowned thoughtfully at the ceiling. “You’re not the first person to suggest that,” he said, tipping his head to take another sip of his drink. He settled back, still not meeting Bond’s eyes. “Or it’s just coincidence. That would be better.”

“Whatever the case, I can’t argue,” Bond admitted, tracing Q’s mouth with his finger once more. “You happen to be very distracting, Quartermaster.”

Q’s eyes fluttered closed again, and he nipped gently at Bond’s fingertip. “It’s a holiday. As far as I’m concerned, it is now our job to ensure we make it as pleasant and relaxing as possible for each other. Which means I’m under no obligation to ask you to do anything, or to keep track of you, or to ask for the tenth time where my bloody gun is. I won’t even complain if you’re a leave-the-towels-and-socks-on-the-floor kind of guy. Well, I might mutter quietly and incoherently about that, but you’ll only notice because it’s a small cottage.”

“I assure you, I’m not — though be glad you’re not saddled with Alec,” Bond said, very pleased that Alec wasn’t the one getting first crack at Q. He had no doubt that it would eventually happen, but _this_ holiday was his. “Feel free to ask me to do anything _else_ that comes to mind. Starting now, if you’d like,” he invited, sliding his hand down to Q’s throat, drawing a light line down to the edge of Q’s collar and over his tie. “Or to take off whatever you’d like.”

“As much as I like the idea,” Q said, opening his eyes and grinning up at Bond, “I’m feeling rather lazy and disinclined to move. I’m afraid you’ve rather hypnotised me.”

Bond took the invitation to tug at Q’s tie. He worked the knot down an inch, then sipped his drink before switching it to his other hand so he could set it down on the end table. With both hands free, he went back to petting Q’s hair and working his tie down. “If nothing else, you should be more comfortable for the drive, don’t you think? I have a shirt you can borrow, if you’d like. Even a perfectly decent shower you can use.”

“Is it as cosy for two?” Q asked with a low laugh. “Tabby isn’t leaving until after a late dinner; she _was_ expecting me to join, but she won’t care if I politely inform her that I won’t be there. I’ll just call her later.”

“Why don’t you get the water started and I’ll call her? There’s definitely room for two, and I would be delighted to scrub your back,” Bond said, thinking of the mobile in his bedside drawer. “What’s her number?”

“I can...” Q cracked his eye open and looked up at Bond, then patted his pocket. “Right.” He sat up and rattled off a number. “Her name is Tabby and she will be _delighted_ to speak to you,” he said wryly. Then he stood, unzipped his cardigan, and started unbuttoning his shirt. “But don’t take too long,” he added as he slowly started revealing the skin over his chest.

Bond sat up and caught the lowest button with one finger. “If she chats too long, I may be forced to bring the phone into the shower with me. I hope that doesn’t count as unjustifiable abuse of technology,” he said, undoing the button so he could drag his finger over the skin beneath.

Q shivered and stepped closer to Bond, fingers stuttering over his buttons. “Gods, James. I should warn you — it’s been a long time. You’ll have to be gentle with me. And no need to beat around the bush with her; just mention I’m waiting in the shower for you and she’ll probably hang up very quickly.”

“And it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to properly shock a family member,” Bond said, leaning in to kiss the little triangle of exposed skin above Q’s belt. For someone who spent all of his time at a desk, Q’s stomach was flat and beautifully defined, and Bond undid one more button so he could lick up, against the strands of soft hair. “I’ll tell her we’ll be there late this evening, and to leave the key under the mat, if necessary?” he asked, gently removing Q’s hands so he could undo the final button himself.

“Huh?” Q responded ineloquently, shivering under Bond’s touch. He let go of his shirt to run his hands through Bond’s hair, though he didn’t tug or pull. “Do that again.”

Happily, Bond pressed his mouth to Q’s abdomen and licked up slowly, tracing the valleys between his muscles. He slipped his hands beneath Q’s shirt and gently tugged it free of his trousers, enjoying the way Q shuddered. He was wonderfully sensitive, and Bond rose, pressing his fingers to either side of Q’s spine to keep him from stepping back. Regretting putting on a T-shirt, Bond kissed over Q’s sternum and collarbone and up to his throat, finally indulging himself with a lick from shoulder to earlobe.

Q turned completely malleable in Bond’s hands, leaning into Bond’s touches without using any force whatsoever. His breathing quickened, and his hands in Bond’s hair tightened just enough to provide a delightfully contrasting friction. He tipped his head away to give Bond more room as soon as Bond’s tongue ran over his shoulder, and his whole body trembled when Bond got his neck. “Perhaps I’m not going to get as much done on the car as I thought,” he breathed out before leaning in to steal a kiss.

Bond hummed in satisfaction as he pulled Q close, delighted at Q’s lack of shyness. Playing hard-to-get was entertaining and all, but this was a level of refreshing honesty that Bond almost never saw. He kissed and invited Q to kiss back, loving the feel of Q’s tongue and hands. And when he went back to kissing up Q’s jaw to his ear, Q lowered his head and tugged at Bond’s T-shirt so he could bite at the base of his throat.

The sofa was becoming far more enticing than the shower; they could shower afterwards. “I’ll call your sister and make our excuses,” Bond said into Q’s skin, before he traced his tongue around the shell of his ear. He let go with one hand so he could get at his own mobile — _not_ his work phone — holstered on his belt. “Why don’t you try and distract me?”

Q laughed breathlessly, then looked at Bond with a spark of challenge in his eye. “All right,” he said wickedly, then gave Bond a shove back onto the couch. As soon as Bond was sitting, Q reached down and pulled his T-shirt off in one not-very-gentle tug. One more shove, and Bond was lying on his back on the couch, looking up at a smirking Q. “I think I can manage.”

Grinning now, Bond closed his eyes, recalling precisely where he’d been, where Q had been, and everything his senses had reported when Q had given him the phone number. It was easy to recall the digits, even with Q licking at his collarbone — mercifully, the one that hadn’t been damaged by Ronson’s killer’s bad aim. He dialled with some care — no need to get a wrong number — and then set the phone to his ear just as Q gave up licking first to suck, then bite.

“Adam Stephens, you’d better not be calling to cancel your vacation, or I’ll show up in the middle of MI6 with a hellhound just to herd you out,” came an older, American woman’s voice.

Bond blinked in surprise, glancing at Q, who wasn’t paying any attention to him in favour of settling more comfortably between Bond’s legs. “Actually, this is James Bond. I’m calling for Tabby?”

“Oh? Why? You’re not her type at all,” the woman responded in a dismissive purr. “You sound very... masculine, dear.” Then there was a shuffle, a quiet feminine voice in the background, and the woman laughed. “I could have _sworn_ it was Adam. But it’s not for you, nor would you be interested, so allow me, hmm?” she said to the other person.

Then Bond stopped listening for a moment as Q found his nipple, which he proceeded to tease with the same lick, kiss, suck, bite pattern. Bond closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the arm of the sofa; his free hand found Q’s hair, holding him right where he was.

Finally, he rallied enough to say, “Is Tabby there? I wanted to let her know Adam and I would be late.”

“Adam and I?” the woman asked, drawing out the last word with a note of delighted scandal. “He didn’t tell me he was seeing anyone new. How delightful. And who, dear, are you?”

Bond hesitated; he had no clue who this woman was, though she certainly didn’t sound like a terrorist or enemy. _Priority two threat_ , he thought, frowning at Q. He gave a tug on Q’s delightfully tuggable hair and said, “A co-worker. To whom am I speaking?”

Q looked up at Bond curiously, halting his attentions long enough to focus on the phone.

“His grandmother, Endora. I’d tell you my last name, but you’d never be able to pronounce it.”

“Endora?” he asked, wondering what the hell kind of name that was.

Q stopped what he was doing to stare with some concern at Bond.

Somehow, Bond managed to refrain from asking if she had anything to do with George Lucas’ choice of Endor as one of the names in Star Wars. Instead, he said, “I’m afraid we’ll be a bit late. Would you let Tabby know, please?”

Endora’s laugh was low and pleased, and not dissimilar from Q’s. “Won’t she be thrilled? I can’t wait to meet you. I’ll have dinner ready for you boys. Vegan lasagne and garlic bread, fresh from Brooklyn. Have fun!” And with that, she hung up.

“Endora? Really?” he asked, despite his best intentions. He hoped this wasn’t as worrying as it felt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been blindsided by a grandmother. Fathers, yes — a certain Italian crime lord came to mind — but not a grandmother. Not at his age.

“Well, _shit_ ,” Q huffed, all of his contentment and lazy sensuality melting away to be replaced by annoyance. “Tabitha threatened to call her, but I didn’t believe her. Maybe she won’t bother us at all. Maybe she’s just there to go with Tabby on her walkabout.”

“She’s intending on having dinner,” Bond said, hoping he was overreacting, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

Q sighed and settled back on Bond’s chest, head turned sideways so that his ear was pressed over Bond’s heart. There was nothing sexual in the movement at all — it was all resigned defeat. “All right. We should go. The quicker we get there and get this over with, the quicker she’ll leave. Grandmother hates that cottage, says it reminds her too much of being young thousands of years ago.” He huffed out a laugh. “She’s probably just going to stay to yell at me for dating... a co-worker. When she finds out we’re not dating, she’ll leave us alone.”

Not very comforting; in his experience, grandmothers weren’t very rational about their grandsons (or granddaughters) bringing anyone home, ‘dating’ or not. “Vegan lasagne and garlic bread from Brooklyn?” he asked, feeling vaguely like he’d been run over.

“Oh, thank the gods she’s off her southern chicken kick. That was horrendous. I may never enjoy gravy properly again,” Q said, though his expression wasn’t nearly as amused as the words. He sat up completely and settled on his knees, frowning down at Bond. He looked ready to say something, then apparently decided against it.

He clambered off Bond and retrieved his clothes from where they’d fallen on the floor. He didn’t put them back on, though; he set them on the back of the sofa and turned to look expectantly at Bond. “You said you had a shirt?”

Hiding a sigh, Bond got up. “T-shirt or something nicer? And should I change?” he asked, picking up his own T-shirt off the floor. “Is this an _occasion_?”

Q snorted. “Not even close. Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll get bored with waiting and will be gone by the time we get there.” He walked up behind Bond and ran his warm hands over Bond’s now tense back. “You don’t have to go. Technically, you’re just the bodyguard. You can make up an excuse if you like, such as checking the security of the perimeter. I can even provide you with motion sensors and cameras to install if it helps.”

“And leave you to your grandmother without backup?” Bond gave a more cheerful smile than he felt, regretting the casual phone call he’d made. Ignorance would have been far better than bliss, in this case. “We’ll go, we’ll make Grandmother happy, and then we’ll have the rest of the holiday to ourselves.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Monday, 29 April 2013**

At least Q wasn’t upset about his grandmother’s subtle interference, though Bond took the precautionary measure of offering him the car keys as a distraction, once they were outside London’s awful traffic. He refused, so Bond engaged him instead with questions about the safe topic of cars, followed by buying a personal computer to replace the one MI6 had sold when Bond had been playing dead.

Q entered the address into Bond’s phone — Bond still had possession of Q’s — and they were in Wales soon enough. Just before half seven, the GPS directed them to turn off a narrow road onto a dirt path just wider than the car. Worried about the undercarriage, Bond slowed the Audi to a crawl. Mud splashed everywhere every time the car hit a puddle.

Then he stopped, when the headlamps swept over a sheep.

“If you see some... peculiar individuals,” Q said, peering at the sheep, “it’s because Tabitha has several different kinds and just lets them wander. I don’t think they can even be called a particular sort of breed anymore.”

Bond actually had some familiarity with sheep; the Middle East had far more greenery and pastureland than most people realised. This particular sheep was definitely odd, though, with a gorgeous coat of thick, curly wool. It was utterly unimpressed by the car and seemed uninterested in getting the hell out of the way.

Apparently, a sheep track cut across the road — or the road cut across the track, Bond mentally corrected, since it seemed that more sheep than cars passed this way. The hedge to either side of the road had been battered down, forming a natural arch exactly one sheep in width and height.

“If I need to get out and push, this may well be the strangest duty I’ve ever performed in Her Majesty’s service,” Bond pointed out. Besides, pushing sheep about wasn’t often successful, and he didn’t feel like poking it on the hindquarters with the point of a knife to get it startled into moving.

Q coughed to cover a laugh and looked out his window, then twitched his nose like a sniffing rabbit. It was oddly endearing, and Bond couldn’t help but wonder how to get Q to do it again.

A few metres in front of them, the sheep let out a baleful bleat and ran off the road and onto the track.

“Oh, well, I guess he was as unimpressed with us as we were with him. Him? Her?” Q huffed, looking over at Bond with amusement.

“I’ve no idea,” Bond admitted as he got the car moving again. He cautiously crossed the sheep track, glancing to the sides as he did, but there was no hope of actually seeing anything. They were so far out in the middle of nowhere that he could see ten times the stars visible on the outskirts of London. Maybe a hundred times. It was gorgeous, despite the wild sheep and ruts in the road.

Then Bond found himself faced with having to redefine ‘gorgeous’ as the headlamps swept over a cottage.

The structure itself was smaller than what Bond expected; he was accustomed to cottages that often had two storeys and six or seven bedrooms. This building was only one storey tall in whitewashed brick, with a curving roof that had occasional rooflights peaking up from the thatching. The brick itself was covered in a variety of climbing, and mostly flowering, flora, and even with just the headlights for illumination, Bond could identify roses, honeysuckle, and jasmine. From the front Bond couldn’t actually see any attempt at a yard, just a garden full of wild-looking blooms curving around a garden path. The cottage and its gardens were surrounded by a low stone wall covered with ivy and other trailing vines.

“You’ll have to pull around to the back to park,” Q said, eyeing an owl that was perched on one of the wall’s occasional stone pillars. “Don’t block anyone in,” he added with a wry smile.

He slowed to a crawl, noting cats watching from on top of benches and flower pots and inside windows. The side of the house had a low wall of stacked stones. Bond followed it around to a gravelled parking area, with an ancient-looking motorbike with saddlebags and a basket and a 1960s VW Beetle parked there, to either side of a perfectly round, gravity-defying archway of stones that had to have been wired. He couldn’t imagine they were held together by tension.

“This is gorgeous,” he said as he pulled in beside the Beetle. The motorbike looked like it was ready to tip over under a sharp wind. He grinned at Q, asking, “Any last-minute warnings?”

“My family is all a bit cracked,” Q said with a shrug and a smile. “And whether they ignore you or fawn over you, don’t be alarmed. Their attention is always fleeting, if perhaps a bit sharper than your average person’s.”

“That seems a bit extreme,” Bond said as he undid his seatbelt. As Q reached over to undo his own, Bond caught his hand and leaned in close. “As long as they’ll be gone by tonight.”

“Gods, I hope so,” Q said, smiling more freely this time. He leaned in to cover the last few inches to give Bond a kiss — not light or teasing or tentative, but deep and filthy and full of promise.

Feeling better — and just a bit curious about this second or third reference to ‘gods’, plural — Bond brushed Q’s mouth with his fingertips and then went to get out of the car. Deciding to leave the luggage in the boot for now, he went around to Q’s door and opened it for him. “Would this be a terrible time for me to say I rather like seeing you in my clothes?” he asked, running a hand over Q’s shoulder and the borrowed T-shirt he wore.

“Not at all. In fact, wait until you see the shower,” Q said with a wicked smile as he got out of the car. “Then I’ll encourage you to tell me how much you’ll look forward to seeing me _out_ of your clothes, too.”

Bond grinned and offered Q his arm, then hesitated. “Do we introduce ourselves as co-workers or something more?”

Q gave Bond a curious look, took his arm, and led him through the stone arch and onto a path of dark blue, light blue, and white curling waves of yet more stone. “My family isn’t prudish about interpersonal relationships. It’s the ‘seeing each other’ part that they care about.” He stopped about halfway down the path and picked a handful of yellow flowers from a low-growing plant. “We’re not seeing each other, so you’re safe.”

Ignoring the faint twinge of regret at the casual dismissal, Bond smiled at the idea of his Quartermaster — all tech and sharp edges and brilliant intellect — picking flowers. He waited beside Q and offered his arm again before continuing up the path to a door recessed into the thick whitewashed wall.

When they reached the back of the cottage, Q let out a small laugh, nearly a giggle, and tugged Bond to the right instead of heading inside. The back of the cottage was surrounded by a brick wall that was covered in yet more climbing plants and small bits of moss. There was no ceiling over what Bond assumed was a garden patio — more stone set into the ground and nearly covered in potted plants. Q pulled Bond to the centre of the back wall and nudged him. “What do you think?” he asked, looking up.

Puzzled, Bond looked up and spotted a dark, wide showerhead. A glance around proved that this spot would be delightfully private. “As long as the water’s warm, I don’t think we’ll need to spend much time inside — at least during the day.”

Delighted, Q laughed and turned, leading Bond back towards the door. “It’s warm. And my sister has been very diligent about keeping bugs and creatures away, so not even the smallest eyes will catch us.”

“Your sister’s as much of a genius as you are, isn’t she?” Bond approved making a mental note _not_ to try and seduce her — at least not until things with the Quartermaster cooled down, as they inevitably would. Which was a shame, but he was used to it.

“Yes,” Q said simply as they reached the door. He took a deep breath and knocked. “Different ambitions, though.”

“I can see that. I can’t imagine the person who created this beauty would be content trapped in London, working a government job. All that paperwork.” He smiled slyly at Q and suggested, “You should do away with at least half of it. Think of the efficiency improvements.”

“I’m working on it,” Q promised.

Whatever else he was going to say was interrupted by the sudden opening of the door. A woman stood there — obviously Q’s sister, though she stood a bit shorter, with longer hair and softer features. She was dressed in jeans, hiking boots, and a soft, green gauze shirt that flowed in nearly transparent waves from her shoulders to wrists to mid-thigh. She wore no jewellery, but her hair was done in complicated braids with flowers stuck in here and there. She wore no glasses, and Bond couldn’t see a hint of contacts.

“Adam!” she called, jumping with a small hop across the threshold to crush Q in a hug.

Bond grinned, thinking she might well be Q’s twin. Same thin build, same bright-eyed enthusiasm when presented with something well-loved. Bond wondered if she’d react the same way to a confiscated laptop or stolen prototype sniper scope. Those, at least, he could manage — though neither one had ever got him _this_ sort of greeting from Q.

Q kissed her warmly on the cheek and gave her a spin before setting her down and releasing her. He gestured to Bond. “James Bond, agent and companion, Tabitha Stephens, horticulturist and sister.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Tabitha,” Bond said, holding out his hands to her. It was a defensive move he’d learned long ago; he could grasp hands, kiss knuckles, or hold someone at bay without looking awkward.

But instead of shaking his hands or ducking in for a hug, Tabitha grabbed him by the palms and held his hands up as if for inspection. “Do you do massages?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, ignoring how Q sputtered next to him.

“I do. I worked for a short time as a masseur in Nice,” he said, not bothering to mention the undercover part of it.

“Excellent,” she approved, dropping his hands. She leaned in to give him a kiss on his cheek, whispering, “Remind me to show you where I keep the oils before we go. Adam could _really_ use it.”

“I’d very much appreciate that,” Bond said, returning the kiss to both cheeks, glad to have her on his side. “I promise, I’ll do my best to take very good care of him.”

“I like you already,” she said with a smile as she stepped back.

“Tabby,” Q huffed with exasperation.

Tabitha shrugged, grinned at the both of them, and turned away to walk into the house. “Grandmother!” she shouted, leading them through an old-fashioned mudroom. She cast a look over her shoulder at Q. “She’s in a right mood, just to warn you. Something about Uncle Arthur getting himself in trouble with the Council again, and it bleeding over into her life.”

Q groaned, taking Bond’s arm again. “We’re not expected to do anything about it, are we? I have spoken to anyone on the Council in” — he cast a glance at Bond — “years,” he finished.

“Absolutely not!” came an indignant voice from somewhere beyond the mudroom. “You stay happily hidden in your mundane, terrestrial existence, darling. Much safer for you.”

Though Q didn’t respond, his hold on Bond’s arm tightened. Bond had no way to interpret the nuances that he was missing, but he was beginning to get a distressingly _New Age_ feel. Not that he had anything against pagans — if nothing else, they were less stuck-up than most Catholics he knew, his own family included. But ever since his run-in with Solitaire, all that sort of thing left him... twitchy.

Tabitha stomped her feet on the mat in the doorway and hopped across the threshold into what turned out to be the kitchen. It was warm and small, full of books, shelves of teacups, and racks of spices. Flowers and herbs hung from rows of low-hanging loops suspended from the rafters, though the ceilings were high enough that Bond didn’t have to duck under them. There didn’t seem to be a proper kitchen table, merely a table set in a nook overlooking a side garden. More bookshelves were built into the sides of the cushioned benches, though, to Bond, they didn’t look like cookbooks.

“Grandmother,” Q said with a mix of subdued affection and wariness. When Bond turned to greet the woman herself, he stopped in surprise before he could actually say anything. She was perched, laying on her side, on the kitchen island. Though Bond’s attention was initially captured by the shock of curly red hair sticking out in wispy curls around her head, his eye was quickly drawn to the flowy green caftan over a purple dress.

 _Grandmother?_ he wondered. She looked fifty, with the sort of careful cosmetics and dye to bring that back five years, even though that colour of red never really occurred in nature. But she was _alive_ , more alive than anyone Bond had seen in years, and he had a sudden wild temptation to turn her loose on Mallory. He’d lay out his life’s savings, scant as it was at the moment, to bet that she’d be running MI6 within a week.

She looked over Bond with the sort of searching, disapproving gaze that Bond was all too familiar with, though it usually came from the executive types, not from eccentric, middle-aged women who wore far too much makeup.

She didn’t say anything directly to Bond, however, in favour of turning a disappointed look on Q. “Oh, Adam, darling. Not you, too. Didn’t you learn _anything_ from Samantha’s mistake?”

Q straightened and gave her an annoyed look. “Grandmother.”

She waved her hand dismissively and sat up. “Dinner?”

Bond glanced between the three of them, wondering if he should introduce himself to the older woman or if he should just fade into the background. That seemed the safest choice, given what Q had said about his family’s odd ways. Of course, he’d already spoken to her on the phone. Perhaps she had memory issues and had forgotten in the time it had taken them to drive here?

“I, for one, am quite glad to see Adam bring someone here with him,” Tabitha spoke up with a wink at Bond. “Even if he is... normal.”

Endora snorted and hopped off the island in a graceful slide of whispering fabric. Then, after a glare from both Tabitha and Q, she strode up to Bond and smiled. “Hello, Jason. Nice to meet you.”

“James,” he corrected, writing it off as a bad memory. He’d had to work to train himself to remember names rather than ranks after leaving the military, after all. He held out his hands to her, thinking a kiss on the cheek might just be deadly with that much lipstick. At the very least, it would stain long-term. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“How... charmingly normal you seem, Josh,” she said with an obviously fake smile. She looked at Q and raised an eyebrow.

“James,” Q corrected with annoyance. “Don’t you know that we’ve caught on to that little trick of yours by now?”

“They all sound the same to me,” Endora complained. “Are we eating inside or outside, Tabby?”

“Outside,” Tabitha and Q said at the same time.

Endora laughed, then smiled at Q. “Five minutes, dear.” Then she turned and walked outside through the mudroom.

Bond glanced at Tabitha and then at Q, somewhat at a loss for words. He could deal with a grandmother’s ire, though it really had been ages. But she was very _young_ to be Q’s grandmother, wasn’t she? Either she’d got herself a head start on a family or perhaps she was a younger second wife, sort of a step-grandmother.

Thinking he should probably make up for lacking courtesies, he turned to Tabitha and said, “I’m sorry for barging in like this.”

Tabitha looked at him for a moment, then shook her head. “Adam, why don’t you go help her? James and I are going to take my bags to the bike, then we’ll come right out, all right?”

Q looked over at Bond, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Bond smiled at her and said, “I’m happy to help. The bike’s yours, then? Vintage, is it?”

“Traitors, the both of you,” Q accused fondly, releasing Bond. He kissed Bond on the cheek, then his sister, and followed his grandmother out.

“Vintage implies an interest in keeping her in good condition,” Tabitha said once Q was gone. “It’s really just a piece of junk I accept as a personal challenge to keep running. Well, maybe not so much a challenge as a game.” She grinned at Bond, then turned and strode through the kitchen into the living room.

Bond followed, looking around with interest. The room was small and cosy without feeling over-crowded. It had an overstuffed couch along the back wall, set in front of a massive oval window that took up most of the wall and overlooked the front garden’s wild tangle of flowers and garden paths. Two wide chairs were set across from it, and a simple wooden coffee table divided them. A fireplace took up most of the opposing wall, formed from slate and river rock, and featured not just a grate, but a variety of tools for actually making use of the fire, including a cast iron tea kettle on a swinging hook and a dutch oven pot in the corner. The remaining wallspace was covered either in bookshelves or plant stands, making the room feel like a cross between a library and an arboretum.

“So you’re not the tech-type, I take it? I suppose Adam could take a look at it for you, if you’ve got any concerns before setting out. He’s made some beautiful plans for my car — possibly _his_ car, if he’s still interested in it in a few months.”

Tabitha shrugged. “I manage fine on my own. Okay, so, a few quick tips.” She took a sharp left past the living room and led Bond into a large room, the same size as the living room, that was mostly glass windows and brick walls from the waist down. The toilet and a shower stall were hidden to the right. A massive whirlpool bath was set against the back left wall, surrounded by shelves full of candles, jars of herbs and flowers, and bath salts. “Adam _loves_ water. There is a shower outside for when it’s warm enough, and the tub in here foams and bubbles and does other delightful things. All oils are nontoxic and more or less edible, though some taste better than others. You can usually guess by the smell.”

Much as he appreciated the information — and he genuinely did — he wondered why she was telling him this now, minutes before dinner. Then again, perhaps she planned on leaving as soon as they were finished with the meal. If she’d been holding off dinner while they drove out from London, she might well be behind schedule.

So he smiled and said, “Thank you. He’s very special — worth this sort of attention.”

“The mess with that insane, murderous hacker really took it out of him. He’s not used to being a step behind anyone, and it’s thrown him off his game. I really think he needs this.”

Bond couldn’t help but stare at her. Had Q _told her_ about the whole disaster with Silva? MI6 had moderately reasonable expectations regarding secrecy and family members, but that was the sort of thing that should be reserved for a spouse or partner. Then again, Q was single; perhaps Mallory had authorised him to talk to his sister?

Tabitha turned to smile at Bond, and he quickly smiled back. He’d bring it up with Q later. She poked him in the shoulder — his left shoulder, mercifully. “I know you’re not ‘together’, but some genuine affection won’t be remiss, if you can manage.” Then she turned and led him back out to the hall.

“I’m certain that won’t be a problem,” he said agreeably, following her back through the house. “This is absolutely gorgeous, by the way. Did you do all the decorating yourself?”

“Thank you, and yes, actually. Built it from the ground up. Our family isn’t from around here, and we miss home sometimes. This was as close to where we come from as I could manage.” She stopped at a built-in cupboard in the hallway and rapped her knuckles on the door. “Extra linens, blankets, towels.”

“And the sheep and cats?” he asked curiously. Thinking about it, the place didn’t smell of cats. Of course, with this much flowering greenery, she could keep lions and the odour wouldn’t come through.

“It seemed the thing to do,” she answered with a shrug and a bright grin. She stopped just long enough to open the next door, holding it open for Bond to see but not moving far enough out of the way for him to step past. A large bed with a white, flowery duvet took up most of the space, with hooks featuring a variety of scarves and garden hats covering most of the surrounding walls.

“My room,” she said. “Adam was going to stay in here, because the bed is bigger, but it’s a flimsy frame and it squeaks. So you’ll be staying in the room across the hall.” She waved at the opposite doorway.

Assuming that ‘you’ was plural, Bond nodded. He suspected he should say something nice, perhaps about the hats, but Tabitha’s matter-of-fact assumption that he and Q were sleeping together — which they technically weren’t, yet — had him a bit wrong-footed. It felt almost as if she’d assumed he was here _for_ Q, in a capacity that had nothing to do with security and everything to do with... well, squeaky, flimsy bed frames. He wasn’t _insulted_ , but it was very odd all the same.

God, there was a thought. Had Q brought home that sort of company in the past?

“He’s not allergic to sunshine, but you might have to talk him into it. He hasn’t been here in years — like, eight, I think — so don’t ask him for directions to anywhere or you’ll get hopelessly lost.” She closed her bedroom door again and gave Bond a considering look. “And if you break his heart, I’ll use you for fertiliser.”

“We have GPS,” he said automatically, blinking at her. “I hate to misrepresent our relationship, but I’m not certain you fully understand the scope. If you know what happened in London... I was involved in that. We’re colleagues.”

“Excellent,” she said with a smile and a shrug. “Vegan lasagne?” She hooked an arm through his and started walking back the kitchen.

Well, he’d been warned that they might not listen. So he shrugged and decided to have a chat with Q instead — given that he was the most normal of the lot — and smiled at her. “I can’t wait,” he lied, hoping that the next two weeks of his life weren’t going to be spent eating tofu, grass, and mushrooms.

 

~~~

 

Q had absolutely no interest in the story Endora was telling him now about his parents and their run in with the Artful Dodger, but he pretended to listen anyway. Well, he _tried_ to pretend, but he wasn’t certain he was doing a good job of it. The outdoor table Tabby had set up was just too beautiful, and too comfortable, to not be completely taken in by. There were fairy lights and candles and gauzy bits of fabric everywhere, and Q was having trouble not just sinking into the padded almost-couch on his side of the table and falling asleep.

It had been a long few months, and Q wasn’t sure how many hours, if any, he’d slept in the last couple of days. The rum drink his grandmother kept plying him with wasn’t helping, either.

He was worried about Bond, too. He trusted his sister to not say anything ridiculous, but it had been such a long time that he’d taken a mortal lover here for Tabby to meet that he’d forgotten what it was like not to be able to just share. It suddenly seemed important for Bond to know that Tabby had seen him before, that they had talked briefly about him, but Q couldn’t figure out a way to do it in a way that made sense to Bond.

Of course, the fact was that it shouldn’t matter. No matter what it looked like — and it looked like Q bringing home a random co-worker to sleep with without any prior relationship whatsoever — Bond had no right to object. He’d had far more one night stands than Q ever had.

“Hungry, dear?” Endora asked, cutting into his thoughts. Much as Q had expected, she hadn’t broached the topic of Bond once since they’d been out here alone; given Q’s silent reassurances that he wasn’t actually dating Bond, he knew better to expect anything but absolute silence from her on the topic. She would ignore him as completely as she ignored his father, it would seem.

“Sure,” he responded without opening his eyes.

“It looks wonderful,” Bond said from right behind him. At Tabitha’s prompting, Bond took the chair to Q’s right, leaving Tabitha to his left. “Are you feeling all right, Adam?” he asked, hitching over the name. “The drive didn’t give you a headache, did it?”

Q cracked an eye and looked over at Bond. “I’m not sure how much rum Grandmother put in that punch, but consider yourself warned,” he said with his best lopsided grin. Then he sat up and needlessly straightened his silverware. “It’s just been a long week.”

“It’s been a long six months,” Bond corrected, giving Q a warm, relaxed smile, the type of smile that never made an appearance in the high-stress environment of MI6, even down in Q Branch. “You’ve earned a holiday.”

“Any big plans for the next couple of weeks?” Endora asked, picking up a serving spatula and eyeing it distrustfully. “What the hell _is_ this, anyway?” she asked, brandishing it like a weapon.

Fully aware of her disdain for cooking and doing things the mortal way, Q stood and took the spatula away. “No plans,” he said amiably as he cut into the casserole pan that Endora had magicked into existence mere moments ago. It still steamed with heat, and Q inhaled the smell of zucchini and tomato sauce gratefully. “I fully intend to be a lazy bastard.”

Tabitha snorted in disbelief. “Yeah right. Don’t try to wire my cottage this time, please. Can’t you find some other way to show your affection?”

“I guarantee he won’t be doing any wiring,” Bond promised her, eyeing the lasagne curiously. “It’s a holiday, and that means no work. And wiring is too close to your work, Adam.” Under the table, he nudged Q’s foot.

Q smiled at him as he served him the lasagne. “Well, I’m not bloody gardening,” he warned, looking up at Tabitha. “I can feed cats and sheep and water the plants, but I’m not digging anywhere, for any reason.”

“Quite right,” Endora cut in, nodding at Q. “Dirt is such a...”

“Grandmother,” Tabitha said in a warning voice.

Endora shot her a look, then shrugged. “Not that you don’t do marvellous things with it, Tabby.”

Q laughed as he finished serving. “Marvelous, indeed. What was that last paper you had published, about the rotation of certain sunflower crops with fruit-bearing vines, and its effects on local insect populations?”

“Did you say just say ‘insect populations’?” Endora asked in disbelief. “Honestly. Take you out of New York for a few years and look what happens.”

Q sank back into his seat, laughing with Tabby, before he turned to Bond and asked, “Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh, just water’s fine, thanks,” Bond said. Not a good sign, that; he probably wanted to stay sharp, with Endora and Tabby present, which meant he was already noticing things. Then he put a hand on Q’s arm and said, “Don’t get up. I can fetch it. Anything for anyone else?”

A chorus of ‘no, thank yous’ rang out around the table. Q waited until Bond was out of sight, in the kitchen, until he peered at Endora.

“Garlic bread?” he whispered conspiratorially.

“Oh!” Endora said, snapping her fingers. “How could I forget.” In an instant, a wooden bowl of steaming warm bread appeared on the table, and Q sat up, annoyed.

“He’s not an idiot. He’s going to notice that. How about a takeaway box?”

“Oh hush, dear. Most mortals are far too unobservant to notice anything, and if they do, they dismiss it,” Endora said, fanning the steam with her hand. “And Brooklyn doesn’t have takeaway boxes. Just those awful styrofoam things.”

Before Q could come up with an alternative, Bond returned with a glass of water from the sink. He threw a puzzled glance at the garlic bread as he sat down, but he let it pass, hopefully out of embarrassment that he’d missed the basket before and not because a basket of bread had just appeared from nothing. Not that Q expected that would work with a trained agent, but he could hope.

“So who’s the chef?” Bond asked after trying a bite of the lasagne.

“Angelino Berkowitz,” Endora declared grandly. “At Katz’s Delicatessen Italiano, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. That’s in the United States,” she added to Bond.

Q coughed into his sleeve and glared at Endora. “By which she means, that’s where the recipe came from. But Grandmother doesn’t cook, so I’m sure she got someone in the village to assemble it. Right?”

Before Endora could actually respond, Tabitha cut in with, “It was a bear to get home on my bike. I wasn’t sure there would any sauce left, with all the splashing around it did. Dreadfully ungraceful, transporting a casserole on a motorbike.”

“Of course,” Endora agreed with an exasperated sigh. “Another drink, Adam?”

Q pushed his cup forward, deciding that the entertainment value alone of watching Endora try to manipulate the pitcher was worth his temporary laziness. Right on cue, Endora whirled a finger in the air, only to end up poking the cat that leaped up onto the table and bashed its head firmly into her hand, purring like an out-of-tune engine.

“Diney!” Tabitha scolded, giving Q a _look_ before she half-rose to grab the cat with one hand. “Sorry. She’s used to eating on my lap.” She tucked the cat under her arm like a package and refilled Q’s drink by hand, ignoring Endora’s sulking.

Q laughed, then pulled a garlic knot free from the bowl before passing the bowl over to Bond. “I know it’s probably a bad time to ask, but you’re not allergic to cats, are you?”

“Not at all,” Bond answered smoothly, smiling across the table at Tabitha. “Diney?”

“Well, Dionysus is a silly name for a girl, but it was a bit too late,” she said, offering the cat a forkful of lasagna. The cat accepted with delicate bites.

Bond laughed. “How many others are there?”

“Seven. Plus the sheep.”

“Eight in total,” Bond repeated with a nod, glancing at Q. He could almost hear the words _cat lady_ , though they went unspoken.

Tabitha smiled. “Plus the sheep. I spin.”

Bond stared at her for a moment. “You —”

“Wool, you wool-stuffed mortal,” Endora said, looking across the table at Q. “Your sister still has that silly habit.”

“It’s _art_ , Grandmother,” Tabby protested.

“Lumpy blankets and strangely dyed sweaters aren’t _art_ ,” Endora declared. “Rembrandt was _art_. Michelangelo was _art_. Why, I remember —”

“So!” Q interrupted, already knowing where that conversation was heading, and not willing to spend two weeks trying to convince Bond not to have Endora sectioned. “Tabitha. Where are you off to? And is Grandmother going with?” He shot Endora a significant look, but she didn’t even pretend to be chastised.

“Atlant—er, Atlantic cruise,” Tabby said, giving Q a forced smile. “There’s a class I want to take.”

“Dowsing,” Endora said with a deep sigh. “For the garden.”

“Should be easy,” Tabby added. Her laugh was forced. “All that water under the ship and all.”

Q took a drink of his rum punch and started prodding at the casserole dish with his fork. “I haven’t done anything like that since we were kids,” he admitted, pulling a whole mushroom from between layers of noodles and nibbling it. The sweet and earthy flavour of it clashed with the punch, so he set his fork back down and looked over at Tabitha. “Are you diving? James was in the Navy. He might have advice for you.”

“Diving,” Bond said, and though he still sounded polite and relaxed, there was a mission-sharp edge in his voice. “Yes, tough to dive if you can’t find water.”

Tabitha barked out a laugh and kicked Q under the table. Hard. Dionysus let out a yowl and leaped out of her arms in a flurry of claws and fur that poofed up and settled over the table — and the food. Endora lifted a hand, clearly intending to clean it away, saying, “Darling, talk to your cats.”

“Here, Grandmother,” Q said with a quick attempt at standing. He knocked his chair over, but didn’t pay it any mind in order to shove his drink in Endora’s hand. “Try it. Quite tasty. I think it’s time I switched to water.” He shoved the cat off the table and smiled down at James. “Sorry. I’m very glad you’re not allergic.”

“Not at all. Here, why don’t I help clean up?” Bond suggested, also standing. “Dinner was lovely, what there was of it,” he said, gathering up somewhat furry plates.

Endora opened her mouth. Tabitha also stood, saying, “I’ll help, too. Grandmother, _sit_. Relax. It’s a lovely night.”

Grateful that the darkness meant Bond wouldn’t see his embarrassed flush, Q gathered up the casserole pan and wooden bowl of bread and headed back inside, not waiting for Bond or his sister to catch up. Wondering how in the hell he could ever have thought this would go well, he stomped his feet on the mat, a refrain of ‘stupid, idiot, what were you thinking’ dancing through his mind.

He dropped the pan and the bowl on the counter and stared at the cupboards. Would Tabby, infamously environmentally conscious, actually have clingfilm or foil? Perhaps she’d take one look at him, have pity, and conjure it in the cupboards before he’d have to ask.

Bond came up behind him and set down the plates, leaning close to his back. “Relax,” he said quietly, kissing the back of Q’s head. “Holiday, remember?”

Q shook his head, not willing to face Bond just yet with the flush he knew was still decorating his neck and face. “I _did_ try to warn you, but, well...” He shrugged. Then he was struck with sudden inspiration as he heard Tabby come up behind them.

“Lovely, sweet, adorable sister mine?” he asked, facing her with a pleading grin.

Bond backed off, leaving Q to shiver in the absence of his warmth. It was almost May, but once the sun went down, it still got cold and damp. Tabitha came up to Q and pulled him away from the sink. “You, go take a bath. You” — she turned on James and looked sternly at him — “go with him. _Remember what we discussed_.”

“Yes, thank you, that’s what I was going to...” Then Q froze and glared at her, his relief at being dismissed evaporating in the wake of realisation. “Discussed?” he asked in a warning voice.

“Brilliant idea,” Bond said, gently rescuing Q’s arm from Tabitha’s grip. “Have a lovely time on your cruise, and please do say goodnight to your grandmother for us.”

“Thanks for watching the cats,” she said, still eyeing Bond sternly. Only when he nodded did she lean in and kiss Q’s cheek. “I’d say don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, but you don’t have the right parts to do anything I _would_ — at least, not all of them.”

“Gods of the mortal and immortal realms,” Q groaned, blush returning anew. He kissed her back and turned to tug Bond towards the bathroom, resolutely not looking at him. “Have fun. Call me. Give Grandmother my affection.”

“I’ll leave the feeding schedule on the fridge!” she called after them.

“For you or the cats?” Bond murmured, slowing down so he could pull Q close and get an arm around his shoulders. He resumed walking at a more civilised pace. “Or the sheep?”

“Probably all three, knowing my interfering sister,” Q muttered, still flooded with annoyance and embarrassment, though it didn’t stop him from snuggling close into Bond’s warm body. “I’m sorry about them. I love them, but they are cracked.”

“Considering my only ‘family’ is Alec, I think you’ve got the better side of the deal. Unless your grandmother sets things on fire when she gets bored?”

Q closed his eyes as he thought about some of the trouble she wilfully got herself into when she was well and truly bored — some consequences of which were still well-known thanks to epic poems being written about the topic. “You have no idea,” he huffed. “I hope you like really hot water. And just to warn you, the bathroom has a lot of glass, but the tub is recessed, and the windows fog quickly.”

Bond laughed. “I was rather directly informed that massage was the priority here. Would you prefer one before or after a soak? If you chose after, then we can take the massage, at least, to the privacy of the bedroom. The one _without_ the squeaky bedframe, apparently.”

Q stopped and pulled back to stare at Bond in horror. “She _didn’t_!”

“Odourless, scented, or varying flavour oils,” Bond said wryly.

Q was rendered entirely speechless for a long moment, staring at Bond as he was torn between running out to thoroughly yell at his sister and running to hide under the covers of her bed. “By the gods,” he whispered, completely stricken with embarrassment. “You don’t bring anyone home for a few years and it’s like they forget how it’s done.” Then he let go of Bond, embarrassment turning to anger. “I think I need to have a word with my sister,” he said darkly, ready to march outside to see if he could still catch her.

Bond caught him and tugged him back away from the still-open door. “She wasn’t unkind. Just... socially odd. Still a step ahead of Alec, though,” he added, pulling Q close. “Alec would’ve hit on you. Your sister didn’t even look twice at me.”

Then Bond’s hand was in Q’s hair, and he forgot all about yelling at his sister. He stood for a minute, allowing himself to melt slightly under the attention, and sighed. “All right. Massage after,” he said agreeably, leaning into Bond.

Bond touched Q’s chin to hold him still for a kiss that went from polite to very interested in moments. Fingers pressed into Q’s back, just above his waist, pressing his hips forward.

Then, abruptly, Bond spun Q around, shoving him back, and Q caught a glimpse of red hair and a violently green caftan in the doorway. “Really?” Endora asked, sweeping right into the bathroom. “What’s this Tabby says about some impersonal ‘say goodbye for me’?” she challenged, waving Bond out of the way with a little shooing motion of her hand. “Come here, darling. I never see you anymore.”

Q groaned and let his head fall into his hands. He shook his head, then took a deep breath before looking up. “Sorry, Grandmother,” he said with what little bit of sincerity he could muster up. “I’m just very tired. Thank you for coming to see me, and to meet James. And thank you for dinner. It was delicious.” Or, he assumed it was. It looked good enough, despite its appalling lack of cheese. He stepped away from the wall to tug her into a hug.

Hugging her was like hugging a silk-feathered bird. With perfume. She suffocated him briefly before planting a kiss on each cheek, lipstick and all. “You be good, darling,” she said, lifting a hand to pinch where she’d kissed.

Q gently shoved her hand away. “Of all the ways in which you might conform to the stereotype,” he said affectionately, with a shake of his head. Then he caught her hands and looked in her eyes. “Please say goodbye and thank you to _James_. He’s been very kind to me.”

“Hmph. He should be,” she declared, turning to look Bond over. “At least he’s pretty. Reminds me of my third husband, around the eyes. Or was that the dog? Oh, we had the most gorgeous Siberian husky,” she said, waving a hand. “I’m off to Cannes. Have fun, dear. You...” She eyed James again and finally said, “Carry on.”

“We were just getting to that point,” Bond said blandly.

Endora blinked back at him, startled.

Bond turned away and deliberately started filling the tub.

Laughing, Endora walked out. The door slammed shut when she was three feet away.

Q stared after her for a split second. Then he tossed his glasses on the counter and started pulling his clothes off quickly, both as a distraction technique and because neither Tabby nor Endora would come back in if he were naked.

A quick wiggle of his fingers behind his back caused the windows to fog over much more quickly than it technically should have, allowing him to attack the fasteners on his trousers. “They won’t come back in if we’re no longer dressed,” he said with a little laugh, and he left off the trousers long enough to remove a sock, which he then tucked under the door so it would be seen from the hall. He wasn’t going to take any chances.

“That’s just incentive for me to keep you undressed for the next two weeks, in case one of them comes back early,” Bond warned, catching Q’s hands. He pulled them away and then drew down the zipper, trailing a finger over Q’s pants as he did.

Q froze, moaning under the touch before he shivered. It had been far, far too long since he’d had a lover — over a year since Taliesin, in fact, thanks to his ambitions and lack of willingness to deal with one-night stands. “Thank you for staying. Even though they were so horrible to you.”

Bond eased Q’s trousers down and pulled him close again to kiss at his neck. “They were hardly horrible,” he murmured. “By my standards, as long as I don’t end up bleeding at the end of dinner, it’s just fine. Of course, if you tell me I’m spending the next two weeks with a vegan, I can’t guarantee the safety of the sheep.”

“Oh, gods no,” Q murmured, stepping closer to Bond. “Can you imagine a life without cheese?”

“A life without _cheese_?” Bond started to laugh, burying his face against Q’s neck, just as there was a sound at the door. He tensed all over again, twisting to push Q further away from the door. “Grandmother or sister?” he murmured, reaching out for the doorknob.

The cat that charged in was as big as a Welsh corgi, only with proper legs. Tortoiseshell fur stuck out everywhere, and it had a familiar streak of grey over its left eye. “There you are, my boy!” it said — and thank the gods it was just meowing in a way Q could understand, rather than speaking actual English.

Q was very, very tempted to scoop up a handful of water to throw at his uncle-turned-cat, who had been feline long enough to have a very cat-like response to such an assault. But good manners and affection won out over sexual frustration, and Q sighed.

“Hello there, Uncle Paul,” he said with resignation. He gave Bond a disappointed look. “He probably needs food or something. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“Uncle Paul? Thematic with Dionysus, in some way? Or is this one a girl?” Bond asked, getting reluctantly out of the way.

“A girl? A _girl_?” Uncle Paul yowled at Bond. “What would you know, pawing at my nephew the way you were? And don’t try to deny it! I saw through the window. Really, my boy, can’t you do better than a mortal?” he added to Q, tail lashing furiously. “That nice warlock from the Congo — the one who ruled his own tribe.”

“Hush now,” Q chastised him as he stepped around Bond to finish yanking the door open in irritation. The blast of chill air had him shuddering hard, but he wasn’t willing to waste any more time looking for a towel to keep himself warm while he said his proper hellos. And perhaps his being only in his pants would encourage the cat to keep the conversation short. “He required tattoos and piercings and the sort of dancing I could never pull off without looking like a puppet on tangled strings. Not to mention living in _Congo_ ,” he muttered quietly as he padded to the kitchen.

Uncle Paul hissed, trotting along at Q’s side. “It’s lovely there,” he scolded, flicking his tail at Q’s bare leg. “Very nice people. So who’s _that_?” he added with a contemptuous toss of his head in the direction of the bathroom. His ear flicked in feline disdain.

“James Bond,” Q said with a soft smile he was glad Paul couldn’t see from his low vantage point. “A field agent from MI6. He’s here as my bodyguard, but we’ve decided to make the holiday a little more fun since we’re both to be stuck here.” He chuckled wickedly as he pulled a tin of tuna free from the cupboard over the sink. “So may I suggest _not_ sleeping on my bed this time around?”

Uncle Paul leaped up onto the counter and ducked his head, looking at the label. “Not that. That’s in _water_. I need oil for my fur,” he complained. “There should be salmon in there. Blasted lack of thumbs.” He craned his head, ears swivelling, and then asked in a hissing stage-whisper, “You _did_ notice he’s a mortal, didn’t you?”

Q put the can back and started digging around the cupboard, shoving aside tins of tiny shrimp, sardines, and crabmeat to find salmon in oil. “Isn’t it delightful?” he asked, pulling his fingers back as a stack of tins tipped over from his somewhat hasty search. Rather than take the time to re-stack them, he shoved them aside and continued looking. “Mortal men and their penchant for working hard to obtain beautiful bodies and obscenely gorgeous muscle tone.”

“This is because of your father.” Paul let out a sigh and crouched down, watching the cupboard intently. “I always knew your mother — Well, old news. How are you going to explain all this to him?”

Hiding another sigh of irritation, Q finally found and pulled free a tin of salmon. “Why on earth should I explain anything to him? I think I can manage two weeks without magic.”

“Oh. This isn’t a long-term thing?” Uncle Paul cocked his head to look up at Q. “Really, my boy, when are you going to settle down with someone? At your age, you should have a family. Or at least a proper familiar.”

“He’s not the long-term type,” Q responded with a shrug. “I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t tire of me before the holiday is over. And I don’t have time for a partner or a familiar. MI6, remember? I can barely keep my plants alive.”

“It’s a phase, this whole wartime thing. Germany cannot stand forever against the Allied forces!” the cat declared, tail puffing out. Uncle Paul thought himself something of a mortal history scholar. Unfortunately, he’d stopped paying attention around 1940.

Q couldn’t help the laugh Uncle Paul managed to startle out of him every time he spoke about mortal politics. He barely resisted the urge to pet the cat, knowing it would get him an indignant hiss and perhaps even a bite on the hand. He didn’t want to get back into the tub bleeding.

“Right. The enemy stands no chance against England when I’m working for military intelligence, you know,” he said reassuringly. “Can I go back to my bath now, please? Any more interruptions and I may very well fall asleep before we get to the fun part.”

“Then you’d best go say hello to the others.” Paul picked up a mouthful of salmon and nibbled delicately on it, casting a critical eye over Q. “And put on some proper clothes. Walking around in your pants like that. This isn’t a barracks, my boy.”

Q huffed. “I fully intend on spending as much of the next two weeks possible not wearing _anything_ , so you might want to make yourself scarce,” he warned. Then he reached up to pull down seven more tins of seafood to bring out as offerings to the rest of the cats. “Are they in the garden?”

Uncle Paul purred in answer, flicking an ear dismissively Q’s way so he wouldn’t have to pause in his chewing. His bristled tail was answer enough.

With a satisfied chuckle, Q gathered up the tins and made his way out to the garden, following the brick wall to where the cats seemed to like to hang out — near the birdbaths and bird feeders, of course. With a quick backward glance to make sure Bond wasn’t out of the bathroom and watching through the window, Q waved his hand to send the tins flying, landing evenly spaced on top of the brick wall. A snap of the fingers had all the lids removed and gone, and he looked around impatiently.

“If you want to say hi, you have two minutes,” he warned. “And I have no intention of getting dressed.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Monday, 29 April 2013**

Something wasn’t right, Bond thought as he hesitantly undressed and got into the bathtub. He felt strangely vulnerable, as if someone were watching him from the shadows beyond the windows, and he kept his Walther close at hand. The rhythm of the whole night was just slightly _off_ , from Q’s bizarre family — asking ‘What the hell is this thing?’ about a _spatula?_ — to how Q had just abandoned Bond to go deal with a very vocal cat. Even stranger, Bond had heard Q talking to the cat the whole time, though his voice was too soft for Bond to make out the words.

No, that wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was that the cat seemed to be talking back to him.

What the _hell_ was going on here?

Maybe he was overreacting. He had zero experience with family, not counting Alec. And strange as Q’s sister and grandmother were, they had nothing on Alec in some of his more destructive moods. Uncle Paul the cat... well, Bond would reserve judgement. But really, who the hell named the cat ‘Uncle Paul’? Was it some sort of odd Beatles reference?

As the minutes ticked by and the tub finally filled, Bond grew more uncomfortable, not less. He certainly wasn’t going to argue with having Q’s company, but... maybe he should. Q was his Quartermaster, not some replaceable bean-counter in Accounts Payable. If Bond managed to fracture their working relationship, he could well end up in a very uncomfortable situation in the field. The last thing he needed was a vengeful ex-lover feeding him intel or handing him sensitive, mission-critical gear.

But it was probably too late to change course. Q had made his interest clear, as had Bond. If Bond didn’t act on it, Q would notice and probably take the rejection personally. And then he’d be in the same position, only _without_ the benefit of having got off first.

He never should’ve taken this assignment. He had a pile of intel to analyse, and he had translations he wanted to review. Even Psych would’ve been less complicated than this.

Then the soft creak of the door distracted Bond from the bleak path his thoughts had gone down, and Q entered the room quietly.

“I admire my sister for making a commitment to be the best crazy cat lady she can possibly be, but good grief,” Q muttered as he shut and pointedly locked the door behind him. “At least if I’m ever tempted to get one at home, all I have to do is remember what it’s like here to be persuaded otherwise.” He gave Bond a crooked grin as he stripped off his pants.

“You have a very interesting family,” Bond said cautiously, giving himself a moment to admire the view. Q was lean and graceful, without a hint of scars — only a few small moles and freckles that made Bond’s fingers itch to touch. He had no idea how Q managed to stay so dangerously thin, despite a sedentary lifestyle and the best efforts of Medical. Probably lived on tea and forgot to eat at his workstation.

“They’re mad as hatters and proud of it, but I love them,” Q said with a shrug. He walked over to the tub, resting a hand on the edge to brush off his feet before he slowly climbed in. He shivered at the heat and sank slowly in the water, eyes closed in peaceful bliss. “Why aren’t there more tubs like this in London? I need to actually buy a flat so I can have one installed.”

“On your salary, you can probably afford to buy a house. Have a tub indoors and one on the back patio, if you wanted,” Bond said, indulging in the thought of Q naked in the hazy London moonlight — or even in the rain. He rather liked the thought of how untamed his hair would still be when wetted down. He reached out to run a hand over Q’s hip, feeling unusually tentative.

Q hummed and settled on his knees, facing Bond, though his eyes were still closed. He shivered again before sliding forward enough to rest on Bond’s chest, twisting so he was laying on his side. He tugged at Bond’s legs to wrap around him. “I’ve never owned a house,” he said thoughtfully, tucking his arms around Bond’s waist. “I wonder how one goes about finding one in London? One with a yard.”

“I have a very good estate agent,” Bond said, automatically holding Q close. Despite all the sharp bones, it was surprisingly comfortable, and some of Bond’s misgivings melted away. “I keep meaning to call her, but I never seem able to find the time. God help me, I’m going to end up living with Alec if I let my lease expire,” he added with a sigh. “Last time we lived together, he managed to light my skis on fire.”

“006 does seem to have a problem with expressing himself in ways that don’t end in fire,” Q admitted, sinking just a little lower in the water. “I keep thinking about ways to take advantage of his surprising creativity with flame for use in the field, but handing a flame-thrower over to him just doesn’t seem wise. I wonder if lasers would have the same effect?”

“Too precise. He likes the random element of just tossing in a match to see what happens.” Bond grinned, though he couldn’t help worrying a bit. Alec was reckless and dangerous and incredibly effective in the field. Of course, they were both flirting with death every time they went out; Alec probably worried just as much about Bond and his fearlessness when it came to heights. He ran a hand up Q’s back to ruffle through the damp hair at his nape. “Feel free to try and rein him in, if you’d like.”

“That’s not really my job,” Q said with a shrug. “My job is to give you lot exactly the tools you need to be most effective at what you do. For 004, it’s handing her a length of indestructible rope. For you, it’s a gun and a knife. For 006, it’s fire. 004 was easy, because there is a lot you can do to the basic structure of a rope to make it better. You were easy, because your biggest challenge is keeping your tools from being turned against you, given the alarming rate at which you use them. But fire? I’m still trying to figure it out. Any suggestions?”

“Incind— You gave 004 special rope?” Bond asked, momentarily offended. He was an expert climber, after all. He hadn’t gone mountain climbing for years — at least not without someone shooting at him.

Then his mind filled in _other_ uses for rope, and the picture of the admittedly attractive 004, though that mental image was quickly replaced by thoughts of Q instead.

“I...” Q started, then stopped in favour of looking up at Bond. He smirked, then pulled himself up and turned to face Bond. He settled over his lap, facing him with a grin. “You’re welcome to convince me you need some, too,” he said before leaning in for a kiss.

Ignoring the little flash of jealousy as he wondered if 004 had convinced Q that she deserved special attention, Bond pulled Q’s hips forward and let Q lick and nip at his mouth. He relaxed only a bit; his overworked, overtrained senses were still whispering to him of eyes outside the window. If he were a sniper, this would be a lovely, perfectly framed shot at the MI6 Quartermaster.

Apparently sensing his distraction, Q pulled back and looked at Bond with a frown. “What’s the matter?”

With a wry smile, Bond leaned in to press a brief kiss to Q’s mouth. “Priority two threat, if you recall. I suppose I’m overtrained,” he said, deciding that now wasn’t the time to mention all the other little things that had gone _wrong_ today. Tonight, actually. After all, what did he know about families and cats? Perhaps they all behaved so oddly, and he’d never noticed.

“Oh,” Q said with a small smile. “The windows. There are shutters, but they’re outside.” He turned back onto his side and settled back against Bond. “I’ll fix it tomorrow,” he promised. He kissed Bond’s chest.

Bond ran his fingers over Q’s spine, trying to recapture the blaze of interest that had caught him by surprise at his flat. Q’s skin was soft, cool from the air, with trickles of water running down from his damp hair. He dragged his fingertips up one trickle up to Q’s nape and around to his throat, feeling his pulse.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so _protective_ of someone he was —

No, he could. Not that _that_ was an appropriate memory, and he let out a huff, irritated with himself. Two weeks’ holiday in a remote little cottage with a gorgeous, interested, would-be lover, and he was on edge because of cats and crazy relatives and now the ghost of his past, a ghost he’d put to rest years ago.

Q leaned into the touch, nuzzling at the skin of Bond’s chest. He kissed over Bond’s heart and slid one hand down Bond’s waist to his thigh. Then he kissed again, this time ending with sharp nip. “James?”

Refusing to think about _her_ any longer, Bond focused all of his attention on Q. “Hmm?” he asked, brushing at Q’s fringe. He rubbed a leg against Q’s and sank down a bit more under the water, trying to let the warmth help him relax.

But instead of answering, Q looked up at him through the wet edges of his hair. He seemed contemplative for a moment, and then came to some sort of conclusion. He moved his hand from Bond’s thigh and brought it up to press just his middle and index fingers on Bond’s collarbone.

“I know a little bit about pressure points, acupuncture, that sort of thing,” he said quietly, then dragged his fingertips slowly down Bond’s chest. A strange sort of tranquility followed in the wake of his touch, tight muscles easing after Q touched them. He drew slow, calming circles over Bond, moving from his chest to arms to back so slowly and gently that he didn’t disturb the water into splashing.

Bond had never been one to believe in that sort of thing, though he’d gone to an acupuncturist for two months after a bad mission in Bolivia left him with a wrenched back. Of course, most of that therapy had been horizontal, with her on top, doing all the work. Very good for his back. But this seemed to be working, and even if it did nothing for his mental concerns, it relaxed his body beautifully.

“You’re very good at that,” he murmured a bit guiltily, remembering his assurances to Q’s strange sister. He’d promised to take care of Q — not the other way around.

Q hummed and moved back and turned so they were back-to-chest. He pulled Bond’s leg up to continue his massage, fingers light over his hamstrings, knee, and calf. “The hot water doesn’t seem to be doing anything for you. I suppose it’s the windows. The hammock won’t be any more relaxing for you... Couch or bed?”

So much for assuming they’d be sharing a bed — though he should have known better than to assume. He leaned in and kissed the top of Q’s head. “I’ll take the couch. Did you want a massage first? I have to work a bit harder than you do, but I’m very good. And I promised your sister,” he added wryly.

“What? No,” Q said with a shake of his head and a chuckle. “I meant it’s early yet. We can go to bed, which is fine by me, or we can watch telly or read or something on the couch. Assuming my sister has a telly, which, come to think of it, isn’t a safe assumption.”

Bond gave up trying to follow Q’s train of thoughts. He pulled Q closer for a proper kiss, and then drew back to smile at him. “Whatever you’d like.”

 

~~~

 

In the rush of excitement that had come from the possibility of having an utterly uncomplicated fling with Bond for two weeks, Q had somehow managed to lose sight of a very important fact: Bond wasn’t here to be his lover. He was here to be his bodyguard. He wasn’t just a co-worker; he was a field agent. A Double O. With a _trainload_ of issues, both personal and professional.

Q cursed himself silently as he led Bond back to the guest bedroom. He’d been so damn wrapped up in his own mental shift from Quartermaster to Adam Stephens that he’d completely forgotten that, of the two of them, Bond needed that shift far, far more than he did. The man had died, came back, nearly died again, then watched one of the few people in the world he respected die in front of him. Not to mention, of course, that he’d had to watch his childhood home burn, along with his favourite car.

At least Q had someplace to retreat to when he needed to wind down. Bond had next to nothing, and those few things he did care about were slowly being chipped away, one by one.

Q flipped on the bedroom light and looked around, trying to decide exactly what he should do next. He thought about offering to give Bond a tour of the premises, but frankly, he was just too fucking tired.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d get the shutters closed over the bathroom and find a way to take care of Bond without it being completely overt about it. After all, nothing would make him tense up more quickly than any sign whatsoever that Q thought he was anything less than absolutely capable.

“I hope you don’t mind the smaller bed,” Q said as he walked into the room. The guest bedroom was tiny — little more than a queen-sized mattress on an iron frame, two bedside tables, two lamps, and an overstuffed bookshelf. He hid any trepidation at the sudden realisation that Bond probably had nightmares, and experiencing them in a small bed might be... unpleasant.

“If _you_ mind, I’m perfectly fine on the couch,” Bond said, walking up behind Q to rest his hands lightly on Q’s shoulders. “Technically, this is _your_ holiday. I’m supposed to be working,” he said, turning to brush a kiss over Q’s ear.

“It probably hasn’t escaped your attention that I’m something of a hedonist when it comes to physical contact,” Q said with a laugh. He shook out of his robe and hung it from the bottom post of the bed, then crawled in under the covers. “I locked everything up when I came in from feeding the cats, but you’re welcome to do a check if you like.”

Bond followed him onto the bed, asking, “Why don’t I get that massage oil your sister recommended?” He tugged the blanket up over Q’s shoulder.

“All right,” Q said happily, snuggling under the covers. “Fair bit of advice? Don’t pick the one that smells like mint. It’s guaranteed to make your hands tingle for hours — not necessarily the most pleasant sensation at one in the morning.”

Bond ducked to kiss Q’s cheek. “I’ll try to pick something that’ll meet with your approval,” he said teasingly before he got back up and left the room.

Q was about to snuggle further down into the duvet when the sound of a doorbell echoed inside his head. He sat up in alarm, making sure his lap was covered, before whoever it was decided to manifest in front of him.

“How’s it going?” came a conspiratorial whisper before Tabitha appeared in front of him, perched on the edge of the bed.

“By the gods and goddesses, Tabby,” Q said with a huff. “I forgot what it’s like to date a mortal. Complicated, even without the actual dating part, isn’t it?”

“And that’s even without the added benefit of talking cats and meeting Endora on your first night together,” Tabby said with a sympathetic nod. “Anything I can do?”

Q sighed and pulled his duvet-covered knees up to under his chin. “Warn the cats to stay out of the house and away from the patio, so I can be naked as much as I please. Tell the sheep that as much fun as it is to practice _The Marriage of Figaro_ in their strange voices, it’s just barely outside of the range of human hearing, and one slip while Bond is here could be very, very bad. The man has serious relaxation issues. And that friendly little ghost girl of yours peeking through the fog in the bathroom _does not help_. Bond could feel her, even if he couldn’t see her.”

Tabitha’s expression had grown more and more sympathetic until she was curled in the same position as Q, chin resting on her knees. “And here I thought he was going to help you. Want me to get rid of him? Call him back to MI6 for a mission in Hawaii with a beautiful girl?”

It took two seconds to conjure the wadded paper missile Q had hidden in a pocket dimension when she’d last aggravated him in Q Branch. Unfortunately, she was projecting, not actually there in physical form, so the paper sailed right through her to land with a quiet swish on the door.

Tabitha chuckled quietly and held up her hands. “All right, all right. I take it back. Anything else?”

Q hesitated, looking around the room. “I don’t suppose you know any anti-nightmare charms, do you?”

Tabitha didn’t say anything for a long moment, though they were both snapped out of their silent staring contest by the rattle of the doorknob. Tabby snapped her fingers silently, and a fist-sized bundle of herbs and flowers appeared at the head of the bed just as the door swung open. Though Bond wouldn’t have been able to see her, she vanished a nanosecond later, before Q even had a chance to whisper his thanks.

Bond entered and closed the door, glancing around quickly before he looked Q over. He put a small jar down on the bedside table, hung his robe on the door, and took Q’s robe off the bed to hang it up as well. “I’m afraid the array of choices was more intimidating than one you’d find in a department store. I found the most neutral one I could,” he admitted as he got into bed beside Q.

Q took the jar from Bond, unscrewed the lid, and gave it an experimental whiff. “Tea tree oil and jasmine blossom, if I’m not mistaken,” he said with a smile. “The jasmine is probably from the vines out front. Tabby has her own still.” He handed the jar back and brushed a feather light kiss over Bond’s mouth before scooting down to lay on his stomach. “Thank you for this.”

“I feel like I should be the one thanking you,” Bond said, pulling the blanket down to Q’s hips. He settled beside Q and poured some of the oil into his hand. “You’re a very private person. I was beginning to wonder if you even had a name, other than ‘Q’.”

“After seeing my family, can you blame me?” Q said with a snort. “If I ever talk about anything other than my job, I end up getting a look that suggests we all should have been sectioned long ago,” he said, relaxing into the mattress.

“Danielle’s resilient. She could take the truth.” he said, moving to straddle Q’s legs. He set his hands to Q’s back and started smoothing the oil over his skin. “I take it your grandmother doesn’t cook?”

Q had a sudden image of Danielle and Endora at the same table together and hid his face in his pillow to smother a giggle. When he’d caught his breath, he turned his head but didn’t open his eyes back up. “Oh gods, no. She doesn’t even particularly care to eat. Anything even remotely domestic is far beyond her reach.”

“Which explains the spatula. So is your sister the chef?” he asked as he dug his fingers in at the top of Q’s back, sliding up to his nape.

If Bond had been another warlock, Q would have purred at the sensation. As it was, he could barely keep himself to a low hum of appreciation. It took a moment of refocusing for Q to remember that Bond had asked him a question. “She can, but doesn’t like to. None of us do.”

“I’ll take steps to keep us from starving,” Bond said, stroking his hands down to Q’s shoulders before starting over at his hairline. “I’m actually a fair cook, with a proper kitchen and Alec _not_ helping me.”

The feel of Bond’s hands in his hair, using insistent pressure instead of just petting, had the odd effect of completely, beautifully scrambling Q’s brain. It had been so long that he’d forgotten how pliant he became with someone’s hands in his hair. Not just _someone_ , Q corrected himself as he melted into Bond’s hands. Someone he trusted. Which hadn’t happened in... years. Perhaps a decade or so, if Q was being honest with himself about his relationship with Taliesin.

“’S okay,” he finally gathered himself enough to say. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. There are tins of edible things and boxes of pasta.”

“You have terrible habits,” Bond said, leaning down to press a kiss to Q’s nape. “I’m surprised Danielle hasn’t cornered you in a break room to feed you for a few days. She tried it with me, you know.”

Q shivered happily under the kiss, not feeling ashamed in the least that he’d been rendered putty-like. “You?”

“After I came back,” Bond said wryly. “Ah. You hadn’t known me before.” He kissed again, running his hands over Q’s shoulders, fingers teasing at the muscles with gentle pressure. “It already feels like you’ve been in Q Branch forever.”

Q could feel his hold on consciousness slipping, the safety and comfort of being at his sister’s and under Bond’s hands and body relaxing him into sleep despite the early hour. “I would cook for you, if you wanted. Or with you. With you would be better.”

“No need. Holiday, remember?” Bond sat back, keeping most of his weight off Q’s legs, and slid his hands down. His fingers trailed along Q’s spine and under the edges of his shoulderblades. “I’m happy to take care of you. It’s rather nice, a mission that _doesn’t_ involve killing my target at the end.”

Q knew that piece of information was relevant to his earlier train of thought, but wasn’t quite able to make the connection at the moment, so he filed it away for later consideration. There was a twinge of distaste at being referred to as a mission, but Q shoved it away. Bond gave his missions everything — there were worse categories to fall into.

Q fully intended on answering. On saying something perhaps funny or witty, or even thankful. But somehow, he couldn’t quite manage it before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

~~~

 

Bond felt the moment that Q slipped from relaxation into sleep, but he didn’t stop the gentle, careful massage. He knew that if he stopped while Q was in those fragile first few moments of sleep, he might wake. Besides, he enjoyed the feel of Q — always tense, always moving, all sharp edges and energy — now relaxing under his hands.

Once he was certain Q was fully asleep, he carefully moved off the bed, casting a glance at the window. The cottage was well-built and sturdy, but that didn’t make him feel any better about the security. He glanced at the window locks and was pleased to see they were decent, though factory installed. Good enough for now, at least with him here.

He rubbed his hands together to dry them and pulled the blanket up over Q’s shoulders to keep him warm. Then, after he capped the massage oil and turned out the lights, he put on his robe and went to investigate the rest of the house.

The windows were high quality, though the placement was regrettable. There was even a glass window beside the back door in easy reach of the single deadbolt. Bond unlocked it and examined the lock, deciding unhappily that it probably wouldn’t take him more than thirty seconds to pick the lock, even with the poor lighting.

If this were an MI6 safehouse, he’d have the authority to call in contractors to take steps. Of course, if this were an MI6 safehouse, he’d also have the authority to shoot the designer. Well, probably not, but he’d _want_ to.

For now, the best he could do was to stay close to Q, stay armed, and stay alert. He got back to the bedroom and found Q had curled up in the dead centre of the bed like a cat. Amused, Bond hung his robe, moved the Walther to the bedside table, and slid under the covers, watching Q carefully. If he stirred or moved away, Bond could go sleep on the sofa, but he’d prefer to stay close.

As soon as he came close, Q inched over towards him. Then, with a little huff, he rolled over, fitting his back against Bond’s chest as he pulled a pillow down into his arms. Amused, Bond got one arm under the pillow and tugged the disarrayed blankets over them both. Q was warm and inviting, and Bond resisted the unusually affectionate urge to kiss him. Instead, he tucked his arm against Q’s body, hand splayed over his chest, and closed his eyes, determined to sleep lightly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Tuesday, 30 April 2013**

As soon as Q stirred, Bond stroked a hand down his back to warn him that he wasn’t alone. “Good morning,” he said softly.

Q let out a hum that sounded almost like a purr and stretched, fingers touching the headboard and toes sticking out under the covers. Then he curled back in on himself, pressing his back against Bond’s chest, and yawned. “Morning.”

“Sleep more, if you’d like,” Bond invited, giving in to the urge he vaguely recalled from last night. He nuzzled Q’s hair and kissed his ear before pulling him close again. “Holiday, if you recall.”

Q tucked himself close and threaded his fingers through Bond’s. “I think I’ve forgotten how to sleep in,” he said with an amused chuckle. He tugged Bond’s hands up to his mouth and nipped at the knuckles. “How did you sleep? I didn’t steal the covers or kick or snore, did I?”

“Not at all,” Bond said, wondering if Q was more a morning sort of person. He wouldn’t object, though a visit to the bathroom might be in order first. He still hadn’t even unpacked his toothbrush. “You’re very polite, even when you’re unconscious.”

Q hummed again and released one of his hands from Bond’s to rub Bond’s forearm. “That’s nice to know. Wouldn’t want to accidentally banish you from the tiny bed. Did you sleep all right? I don’t remember anything past...” He paused, thinking, then chuckled and kissed Bond’s hand. “You have very talented hands. Thank you for that.”

“I can do it again for you tonight — or this afternoon, if you’d rather stay awake for it,” Bond added, amused. “You must have been exhausted. Perhaps Medical bribed your sister so she’d coax you into cat-sitting for her, to get you a holiday that way?”

“Unlikely. My mother, perhaps. She can be very forceful when she needs to be.” Q rolled over to face Bond, hair in an insane, gravity-defying disarray, mouth red and swollen from breathing with it open all night. He had creases in his face from the pillow, but he didn’t seem bothered by them. “I don’t sleep very well in London,” he confessed.

Bond rubbed a thumb over Q’s cheek. “Your mother. Will she be visiting us as well, in that case?” he asked, wondering if he needed to brace himself for it or to simply bar the doors.

“I doubt it. She and my father don’t travel much.” Q gave Bond a reassuring smile. “Besides, I think you’d like her. She’s nothing like Grandmother. Very much a typical suburban housewife, in most respects. More than a little like Danielle, in fact.”

“Which explains how you ended up more conventional,” Bond said, dropping his thumb to sweep over Q’s lip. “Did you want breakfast? Something with caffeine?”

Q’s eyes widened in sudden alarm. “Oh, dear gods. I hope my sister actually has coffee and a coffee pot. She tends to favour chicory root coffee, which... I don’t. If not, we may have to make a run to town.”

“Reconnaissance. We should do that in any case, to lay in proper provisions.” Reluctantly, Bond disentangled himself from Q and sat up, stretching. “Cats? Sheep? Damn. Aren’t they kept in a pen at night? Or a barn?”

Q sat up, but instead of getting off the bed, he scooted backwards and settled behind Bond on his knees. He wrapped his arms around Bond’s chest and kissed between his shoulderblades. “They were all taken care of last night, and won’t start to get desperate for attention until lunch time,” he hinted.

Bond closed his eyes, leaning back into Q. “And you?” he asked, smiling. “At what point do you get desperate for attention?”

“Desperate is such an ugly word,” Q said playfully, pressing kisses up Bond’s spine toward his neck. “Hungry for attention? Needy? Craving?” Q shook his head as he sucked a light kiss into Bond’s neck. “Desirous of,” he finally settled on. “That’s much better.”

“Oh, I’ll happily teach you to appreciate the word ‘desperate’,” Bond said, reaching back to tangle his fingers in Q’s hair. He tugged, careful to keep it gentle. “Sometimes, desperate can be a very, very good thing.”

Q let out a low, breathy sigh and allowed himself to be guided. He leaned forward enough to capture Bond’s mouth in a kiss that was oddly free of morning breath. Then the kiss turned from a gentle morning greeting to something more passionate, distracting Bond from everything but the body pressed close to his. Q’s hands wandered down, brushing over Bond’s abdomen, though they didn’t dip below his belly button yet. But after a moment, Q apparently grew impatient with their positions. He moved next to Bond and gave him a push, and, amused, Bond allowed himself to fall back. With that same charming aggressiveness, Q straddled him and leaned down to finish the kiss properly.

Bond got his hands in Q’s hair, combing his fingers through the strands. “Was there something you needed, Quartermaster?” he asked in his most professionally distant tone as he gave an experimental, sharp tug.

Eyes flinting, Q looked down at Bond with a smirk. He gave a low growl of pleasure, but stopped moving while Bond’s hand was tight in his hair. Bond gentled his touch and slid his hands to Q’s nape, lifting his head to press a line of kisses to Q’s jaw. The feel of short, dark stubble over the sharp bone was enticing; when Bond reached Q’s ear, he went back to Q’s chin and up the other side, thinking it wouldn’t be a bad thing if his clean-shaven, neat Quartermaster were to go a little more casual for this holiday.

“What do you think of showing me the property,” Bond proposed as he got his fingers into Q’s hair again, petting softly, “and then we can take advantage of that outdoor shower when the day’s a bit warmer?”

Q settled on top of Bond, relaxing into a cuddle under Bond’s soft touch. “What I do with wires and programming and explosives, my sister does with seeds and dirt and plant propagation. With the added benefit of having an eye for the aesthetics of garden features. If you like gardens at all, this place is actually quite” — Q paused — “magical,” he finished hesitantly.

Bond petted down Q’s back, tracing the contour of his spine and ribs. “It sounds lovely,” he said, making no effort to get up. “Very relaxing. Precisely what we both could use, I’d say.” He slid his hands down over Q’s arse, using only the lightest pressure before he came back up to Q’s shoulderblades. “I do intend to do a great deal of walking, though. You won’t catch fire out in the sun, will you?”

Q gave a little shrug against Bond’s chest. “I’m not much for the outdoors, so the theory hasn’t been tested,” he said with a low chuckle. “I’m sure there is sunblock around here somewhere, though.”

Since Q seemed content to sprawl on top of him, Bond shifted to get comfortable and ran his fingers up and down Q’s back. “So what else can I do to entertain you? This is a holiday, not an exile from technology. You’re supposed to have fun.”

“I...” Q started, then stalled. He was silent for long moments, just breathing quietly and looking out the window. “I have no idea,” he finally said. “I’ve worked at least fourteen hours a day since I graduated from uni. And when I was in uni, I was always in the lab when I wasn’t in class. I... I don’t have any idea what else to do.”

“I haven’t had a proper holiday for ages — not one that didn’t involve having to get stitches out after a couple of weeks,” Bond admitted. “So why don’t you just do whatever you’d like, and I’ll go along with it? Though I’d have to draw the line at manual labour. I’ll put out the rubbish bins, but there will be no gardening or slaughtering sheep when we have a perfectly good market somewhere in the village,” he added sternly, though he knew Q could hear his grin. “And I’ll cook for you.”

Q sat up, his expression and countenance made even more comical by his wildly disarrayed hair. “Slaughter the sheep? Don’t say that! My sister will suddenly appear to murder us both, and we’ll be used as fertiliser.” Then he laughed and settled back down. “And there aren’t any rubbish bins. Have you ever heard of composting? Or, what we’ll be if we even look at her precious little flock oddly?”

Bond kissed Q’s forehead, surprised at how comfortable this all felt, he’d steered carefully clear of affection for so long. Then again, intimacy was caught up with work, for him. It was a weapon, a way to manipulate informants or get close to targets. Even if he’d considered Q as anything more than a co-worker at the office, he would’ve been motivated by the selfish desire to win favour with the new Quartermaster. But pushing all of that into the context of a holiday instead... It took all the pressure off.

“Right. No sheep,” Bond agreed. “Tea and toast, a walk to assure the sheep their lives aren’t in jeopardy, and then we take advantage of that lovely shower before we go down to the village for lunch. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Q agreed with a contented sigh. He rubbed his face against Bond’s chest, catlike, but otherwise didn’t bother to move or get up. “If it doesn’t rain, we’ll have to water the plants, too. The cats like to hide in the front garden where the birds are; I think we should make a game of seeing how many we can send yowling with perfect aim from the hose. Ten points a yowl, perhaps? And you know they’ll come back, because they’re stubborn, annoying beasts. First one to a hundred points _doesn’t_ have to do the dishes.”

“I’m afraid I shouldn’t let you do that,” Bond scolded over a laugh. “If the cats come seeking vengeance, I may not be able to protect you.”

“Well,” Q said with a yawn and a stretch, “there are eight of them. All together, they probably weigh more than I do.”

“Then for love of god, don’t be like Alec. When I say run, don’t argue. _Run_ ,” Bond laughed.

 

~~~

 

Q stared down in frustration at the loaf of bread in front of him. The old bread knife should have been perfectly suited for helping turn the bread into toast, which was the only contribution to breakfast Bond would permit. So far, he’d been less than successful — the evidence of which was a pile of slices that were either too thin to hold their own weight without flopping, or centimetres thick on the bottom, only to triangle up into a razor-thin tip at the end.

Q supposed he could have used magic to fix it, but one of his mother’s early warnings rang like a bell in the back of his head. ‘There’s just something about the grain that doesn’t like magic,’ she’d complained once. So how the hell had she managed?

With store-bought loaves, Q realised bitterly as he attempted the contradictory act of delicately sawing. His mother was an excellent cook and made some of the best rolls Q had ever tasted, but she took advantage of store-bought bread just like any other suburban 60s mother.

And now, to be honest, Q didn’t dare find out what the unpredictable result of magical loaf-mending could be. Now that he was sure Bond wasn’t going to have a spontaneous eruption of observation over logical rationalisation thanks to Endora’s antics last night, Q was going to do everything in his power to make sure the stress they’d caused him wouldn’t be given a chance to return. There wasn’t much Q could do about a lot of things — the ghost wouldn’t be banished, and the sheep still sang under their breath — but this? This he could do.

With slow and careful movements, Q gently ran the serrated blade down the side of the loaf. Crumbs fell like sawdust on the counter, and Q watched them, thinking perhaps they could have a bonfire tonight. He wondered if Tabby still used sawdust for the chicken coop, and if there was a clean supply around here somewhere for fire starters. It would be an easy charm to keep all the bugs away, and Q could not-so-subtly suggest that they just hang out naked under a duvet while the fire roared.

The slice flopped over, just as crookedly cut and useless as his four previous attempts.

Q cursed viciously and colourfully. He leaned over the counter, staring at the loaf as if it were a particularly slippery enemy, and gave himself over to thoughts of naked Bond just to help clear his mind so he could go into the next attempt at a slice less distracted.

Delicious, scarred, beautiful, tanned, naked James Bond. Who seemed far more interested in simple caresses and cuddling than actual sex. Q was surprised, but not necessarily disappointed. It had been so long since he’d actually cuddled anyone that it was almost as good as sex itself.

Almost.

Q picked up the bread again, frowning. Hopefully they’d get to that at some point. Maybe banishing the ghost would help.

The attempt at distracting himself didn’t help in the slightest. The next slice crumbled and fell away without even a token attempt at standing on its own.

“For the love of the gods and the goddesses and all that is green!” Q shouted in frustration, slamming the knife down on the counter. “What the _bloody fuck_ is the trick?”

“I know something about knives,” Bond said, sneaking up on him out of nowhere.

Q gave a rather undignified yelp and a jump, though he didn’t manage to grab the knife when he spun to face Bond. It fell out of his hand and clattered to the floor, and Q had to leap sideways to avoid damaging his toes. The kitchen was silent for a long moment, Q staring at Bond in utter embarrassment. Bond was too polite to grin, but Q could see it in his eyes. Q finally couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Well, uh, if you want toast, I suggest you do the honours,” he finally said, gesturing at the loaf, refusing to let his body language show how mortified he was to be failing at even the simple task of toast-making, while utterly naked in the sunny kitchen. He cleared his throat and bent to get the knife. “It’s harder than it looks.”

“I’ve managed a time or two,” Bond said as he moved up next to Q. He’d thrown on a T-shirt and jeans that were fraying at the cuffs and worn through at the knees, so far from his bespoke suits that Q could hardly stop staring. He took the knife, looked at it, and then set the edge to the top of the loaf. He started sawing gently and smoothly, and to Q’s disgust, the knife cut cleanly through the crust. “Did your sister make this? It feels fresh. Last night?”

Q stared at the slice in disbelief. “How... what... that’s just not fair!” he huffed, though he pressed a kiss to Bond’s cheek before moving away. Reminding himself that there was absolutely no reason that Bond in jeans and a T should be perhaps even more erotic than Bond naked, Q carefully kept his back turned as he dug around for the toaster that had to be here somewhere. “She makes a fresh loaf every night,” he conceded, comforting himself with the fact that yes, Bond was indeed very good with a knife. “Where did you put our bags?”

“Yours is at the foot of the bed. I didn’t want to unpack it for you,” Bond said, having already cut off three slices. “Would you prefer French toast? If there are eggs, that is,” he added, setting down the knife to go check the fridge.

With a grunt of triumph, Q pulled the toaster free from the shelf next to the oven. “Maybe. If there aren’t any in the fridge, you can go out to the coop to gather some. The basket is probably hanging by the door.” He plugged in the toaster, eyeing it dubiously. It looked at least ten years old. Of course, if it were going to have a problem, now would be the perfect time — Q had started out tinkering with toasters. He could probably get it to sing by the time he were done, though he’d have to magic some components.

“Coop. You have chickens here?” Bond turned to look back from the fridge. “Do we need to take care of the livestock, or does your sister have someone who works for her?”

Q looked back at Bond, thoughts of toaster engineering vanishing in the face of the man’s unfair attractiveness, even with his somewhat concerned expression. It took Q a moment to remember that he had been asked a question, and he coughed before answering. “Well, they’re free range. She has a feeder set up at the coop that should last for a while, but they wander the yard and garden eating... whatever it is chickens eat. Bugs?” He shrugged and headed towards the bedroom for clothes, to the sound of Bond laughing.

He returned, dressed and with brushed teeth, to find Bond had taken over the kitchen completely. He’d found a frying pan and was whisking something in a bowl. Three more slices of bread had made an appearance, and the remaining half of the loaf sat cut-side-down on the cutting board.

“We’ll check on the chickens after breakfast. Anything else I should know about? Cows? Goats? Dinosaurs?” Bond asked, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin.

“Uh...” Q started, staring in disbelief. James Bond, assassin extraordinaire, MI6’s most successful killer and destroyer of small nations, was making French toast in his sister’s kitchen. It was almost surreal, particularly when combined with the admittedly fuzzy memory of Bond laughing with Tabby and Endora outside last night. “I think Tabby would have a pack of velociraptors running around if she had the opportunity, just to keep the fox population down, but alas, availability.”

“Let’s not introduce her to genetic engineering,” Bond said, spooning some butter into a pan, which went onto the hob. “If you want to dig around and find whatever you’d like on these — syrup, honey, sugar — the first slices should be ready soon. And you haven’t mentioned cows or goats. Or are you trying to spread the shocks out a bit?”

“Cows and goats would shock you?” Q couldn’t help but tease as he leaned against the door. “I think she tried an experiment with bees and having her own hives, but that went... badly.” Q smirked at the memory of Tabitha’s late night call, when Q had just started at MI6, and her complaint masked as advice that Q should never consider beekeeping because, apparently, bees and magic — even just residual magic — didn’t go together well. At all.

“When they got hungry due to neglect and came to eat us, yes,” Bond said with a laugh over the sizzle of the melted butter. He turned back to the bowl and lifted out a slice of soaked bread, which he eased into the pan. “I learned how to deal with livestock ages ago, but I can probably recall the basics well enough.”

Q straightened from his position by the door and came up behind Bond, wrapping his arms lightly enough around his waist to not restrict movement. He watched curiously as Bond continued making breakfast. “Everything here is pretty self-sufficient. Tabby has no use for systems that can’t maintain their own balance — she calls it a pointless fight against entropy, doomed from the start. The cats need attention because they’re cats, and the sheep because they’re rather dim-witted, but everything else is more or less fine. If it hasn’t achieved equilibrium in Tabby’s little microcosm here, it’s not our fault.”

Bond laughed and pressed Q’s hands with his arms, since his fingers were still dripping. As he moved another slice into the bowl, he said, “If your sister’s able to keep the goats from eating the garden and the cows from wandering off, all without a system to control them, she’s a bloody genius.”

“Don’t let the quirky lifestyle fool you — she is a genius. She has a Ph.D. in integrated ecological management and another in applied biology with a focus in botany. She publishes endlessly on workable approaches to sustainability in both urban and rural environments. As pretty as everything here is, it’s really much more like my lab in Q Branch than you’d think at first blush.” Q turned his head so his cheek was pressed between Bond’s shoulderblades and looked out the window, thinking about her subtle earth-mother crusade. He suddenly felt very guilty about not visiting more often, falling into the trap of thinking of her as a hippie gardener himself one too many times. “She has a few flats in London that she’s constantly fighting with the city about, trying to prove that sustainability even in overpopulated areas is actually possible.”

“A _few_ flats? I don’t suppose she wants to adopt me, does she?” Bond asked as he turned the slice over in the bowl. “I’m generally capable of watering plants —” He stopped, looking up for a second, and then went back to watching the French toast. “Of course, where I go, Alec inevitably ends up, even if it’s just to raid the fridge,” he admitted.

Q pulled away to dig through the cupboards for something even remotely resembling syrup. “I can ask if you like, but be warned, they’re very much in beta mode. That means you might wake up to swarming bees or chickens sleeping in the same bed or” — he waved his hand thoughtlessly — “foxes invading the compost bin. And if Alec shot a chicken or got bit by a fox, Tabby would be very displeased. Though she might be interested in the effects of random, occasional fires on the ecosystems.”

“You realise Alec would politely wait at least forty-five seconds — perhaps as much as a minute — before going after your sister, right?” Bond teased as he flipped the first slice. He eyed it for a couple of seconds and then put another slice of bread into the bowl, turning it upside-down under the one that was already soaked through. “The burner’s a little uneven, but I think I can manage for two weeks. Unless you feel like fixing it?”

“Oh, Tabby can handle herself. Whether she chose to sleep with him or knock him unconscious in self-defence, they’d be pretty evenly matched,” Q said with a grin. He pushed through the mason jars of labelled and unlabelled liquids and flours, determined to find either icing sugar or honey. It didn’t take long to unearth a bottle of promisingly amber liquid, and when Q pulled it out and sniffed it he found, much to his delight, that it was actual maple syrup. “Does fixing it count as working?”

“Well, it’s a gas hob, so if you blow it up, it counts as entertainment, at least until we have to flee to America one step ahead of your sister’s wrath,” Bond teased. “For now, you can make the tea and get me a plate.”

Q chuckled and set the syrup on the kitchen table before pulling plates off the shelf next to the stove. He set one down in front of Bond and put the other two on the table. While he busied himself with silverware and serviettes, he couldn’t help glancing over at Bond, who seemed utterly content to cook. In fact, Bond seemed relaxed in a way Q had never seen him before, and it made him curious. He was about to ask what else Bond liked to both make and eat when the ghost of the girl who’d been spying on them popped in through the kitchen window.

Knowing that Bond couldn’t see her, even if he could _feel_ her (or so Q assumed, judging by last night’s reaction), Q couldn’t help a little bit of panic. He dropped the glasses he’d been carrying ungracefully onto the table, gaze darting from the girl to Bond, who had turned slightly to look out the window, frowning attentively. His gaze flicked back to Q, and he asked, “You all right?”

“Uh, fine, sorry,” Q apologised, staring down at the glasses rather than meet either Bond’s eyes or look at the girl. He glared at the glasses as he arranged them, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for going outside. Apparently asking his sister to deal with the ghost hadn’t worked — he needed some other way to keep her away. “I just, uh, have to check something. Just a moment.”

“Need any help?” Bond asked as he lifted the corner of the slice in the pan. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he moved it onto a plate and reached for the butter.

“No, thank you, won’t take but a second,” he said, taking advantage of Bond’s distraction to duck outside. He jogged around the cottage, stopping at the corner where he could see the ghost but not be seen by Bond. He waggled his fingers in invitation, glaring at her.

She giggled and inched towards him, looking up with huge, innocent eyes. “Hi,” she sang out to him. She was young, wearing a dress of fine red and white striped cotton, with a wide white collar tied in a bow. Her long hair was hidden under a bonnet, and she had to tip her head back to look at Q with translucent brown eyes. She’d been dead for almost two hundred years, as far as Q recalled.

“You’re making my friend very uncomfortable,” he admonished, giving her a stern look. “I’d very much appreciate it if you could find somewhere else to hang out for the next couple of weeks.”

“He’s cooking,” she observed brightly, with a little giggle. Q had never studied ghosts very much, but in this little girl’s particular case, she seemed to be stuck perpetually around age seven. “Mama says boys don’t cook. Mama says boys should stay out of her kitchen and go fix up the barn, like they’re supposed to.”

“While your mother sounds very wise, indeed, there are no girls here to cook for us,” Q said, knowing it was pointless to argue with a ghost. “We have to feed ourselves somehow. But if you go a few farms down the road, you’ll find Mrs Brigstocke, who loves nothing more than to make pies all day.”

“But mama says the only things men is fit for feeding are cows and horses, not people,” she said with the absolute certainty of youth. “Miss Stephens, she’s gonna be all unhappy with him.”

Q bit his fist in an effort not to laugh, knowing that Bond would probably hear it. “Miss Stephens is my sister, and I got special permission from her for us boys to use her kitchen,” he said in his best assuring voice. “And Mr Bond is a very good cook. But you make him uncomfortable. Can you come back later? In two weeks, when Miss Stephens is back?”

The ghostly little girl frowned in consideration. She scuffed one booted foot against the grass, though instead of the blades waving, little puffs of remembered dirt rose up. Finally she looked back up, met Q’s eyes, and nodded. “Uh huh.”

Feeling suddenly terribly guilty, Q nodded. “Thank you. Besides, we’re going to be spending a lot of time kissing, and little girls don’t like that sort of thing, do they?” he added, making a goofy face at her.

She giggled and covered her face with both hands. “Are you gonna tell your girls that mister” — she frowned again with the effort of remembering, and flickered momentarily out of sight — “Mister Bond was cooking?”

He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Depends on if he burns anything, I suppose.”

She laughed again and held up both hands, dramatically crossing her fingers. “Good luck,” she whispered back, and flickered out of sight. Q caught flashing glimpses of her making her way towards the dirt road.

Relieved that it had been so easy, Q straightened and chuckled at himself. He’d tell his sister to do something really nice for her when she came back... not that he really knew what a nice thing to do for a ghost was. Contemplating the merits of a trip to any of the most haunted towns in England — where perhaps the girl could make some ghostly friends of her own — Q went back inside, lured by the smell of French toast.

Apparently, Bond had better luck than Q, and had found icing sugar to dust over the slices, now cut in half diagonally. The hob was off, and the maple syrup was in a repurposed gravy boat, presumably warmed. “Does your sister not own a coffee pot?” Bond asked without turning, rummaging through the cupboards. “There’s tea, but you can’t have tea with French toast.”

Q sighed in disappointment. “I thought she might not. Chicory root, remember?” He shrugged and pulled out a chair, but turned away from Bond in sudden inspiration. He wiggled his nose in a trick learned from his mother and magicked a tin of instant coffee in the back of the top cupboard, where Bond wasn’t actually looking. “There might be something instant in the top, in the back, for... guests,” he hinted.

“I’m not _quite_ that desperate,” Bond said with a shudder. He poured two mugs of tea, brought them to the table, and then caught Q around the waist to guide him to his seat. “We’ll remedy it later. For now, eat before it gets cold.”

Q laughed and fell into his seat gratefully, pulling his plate close. He was extremely hungry, given the nibble of a mushroom last night that counted as dinner hadn’t been very satisfying. He sniffed at the pieces on his plate and grinned appreciatively at Bond. “You found vanilla?” he asked, impressed, as he reached for the syrup.

“Beans, not extract. I had to improvise,” Bond said, buttering his slices. “She’s missing some unusually common ingredients, really. We’ll fix that all later today. If there’s anything special you’d like for dinner, let me know. If I don’t know how to fake it, I can probably find a recipe online.”

“Online,” Q repeated, still grinning stupidly as he cut his toast up. “Do you actually like to cook? That’s... wonderful,” he said, thinking of all the charming magazine spreads of delicious things he’d coveted but never had the time or desire to replicate. Once again, he was struck by the intense strangeness of James Bond in his sister’s kitchen, talking about improvising with a vanilla bean. Added to the exceptional oddness of having spent a great deal of time being naked with him, without any actual sex, it was all very... satisfying, Q decided. Strange, unusual, but inarguably relaxing. “It’s convenient, actually, because I like to eat.”

“I never get a chance to cook,” Bond admitted, pouring a line of syrup over his french toast. “My schedule’s so unpredictable, I spend two months eating at restaurants or takeaway before I dare buy decent ingredients. And then I get sent out on a mission, and Alec ends up coming over to pillage my cupboards.”

Q nodded, briefly distracted by the thought of what sorts of chemical warfare experiments could be conducted using what he’d heard of being found in some Double O’s fridges. “What do you like to cook? Bread? Soups? Desserts? Not sheep, I hope.”

“I’ll scratch mutton off the shopping list,” Bond said, sounding embarrassed. He took a couple of bites, looking thoughtfully at Q. “I _can_ cook almost anything, as long as it’s simple. There was never time to learn anything complicated. Not bread — it takes too long and is too fussy to get right. But meat and fish... I learned to hunt practically as soon as I could walk. We can clean the evidence before your sister comes home, as long as she doesn’t decide to surprise us.”

Q nodded, then scooped a large stack of toast onto his fork and closed his eyes in bliss as he chewed and swallowed. He tried to remember the last time he’d had anything warm, let alone good, for breakfast... and couldn’t think of anything. Even his toast was usually cold by the time he managed to eat it.

“This is amazing,” he managed between bites. “Gods. What can I do for you? Oh! Your car! Tell me about the Aston Martin.”

Bond laughed, slouching back in his seat with a pleased grin. “It was a bit overdone, but you know how old Boothroyd used to get. But some defences wouldn’t be amiss. No ejector seat. That was hell on the sunroof. It never properly sealed against weather. The interior was always musty by the end of a long drive in the rain.”

“You _actually_ ejected someone,” Q asked with awe in between bites. “Defences I can do. Rockets, guns, even oil slicks if you want to go with cartoon classics. Also, motion detectors and automatic facial recognition at low enough speeds. I’ve also been tinkering with a sort of cloaking technology, if you’ll excuse the blatant theft of Star Trek terminology.”

“Cloaking. Please tell me you mean against radar and CCTV systems and not that silly projected image technology,” he said, amused. He gestured with his fork and added, “And don’t even think of covering my car with mirrors or anything so ridiculous.”

“You think I’d work with a ‘silly’ technology?” Q asked, eyebrow raised. “Just because it’s crap right now doesn’t mean someone like me won’t be able to make it better, with enough dedication and practise. And guinea pigs like you.”

“Fair enough,” Bond said, arching a brow. “Though I’m wondering if I shouldn’t get something a bit more reasonable for your experimentation first. Transport has to have some extra cars; they won’t notice if one or two go missing, right?” He grinned and nudged one bare foot against Q’s shin. “I could teach you how to steal cars, if you’d like.”

Q sighed and shook his head, though he couldn’t quite fully hide his smile. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he accused. “Besides, you’ll be done with her soon enough. I’ll treat her like she’s my own. And no, thank you. In a small town like this, we’ll get into trouble very quickly, even if we return the cars within an hour or two.”

“I wouldn’t steal from any of the locals. I’ll bet,” Bond challenged, gesturing with his fork again, “that you never stole a police car. Hm?”

“I’ve never even been tempted,” Q admitted with a grin.

“Clearly I need to introduce you to temptation,” Bond countered, taking another bite of his breakfast. “Any suggestions on where to start first?”

Instead of answering right away, Q took another bite of his French toast and chewed thoughtfully, looking at Bond. For some reason, the only things he could think of were sex, alcohol, and rock and roll, but he supposed that a refrain from a song wasn’t the wisest answer. Instead, in keeping with his image of a young nerd with little actual experience, he shrugged. “I’m afraid my policy of self-deprivation means I don’t even remember of what I’m missing,” he said with a grin. “Why don’t I just leave those sorts of decisions in your hands?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Tuesday, 30 April 2013**

Properly, Bond suspected the property should be called a farm, though it lacked anything particularly farm-like. There was an open barn where the sheep could seek shelter from the weather and a massive yard, surrounded in chicken wire, for the chickens. None of the animals were ordinary. The sheep were a mixed flock of exotic breeds, with wool in all possible shades from grey to tan to white, much of it long and curly. Apparently, Tabitha had the sheep so she could learn to spin her own wool and to keep the grass under control.

The cats had free run of the property, and Bond couldn’t for the life of him figure out how the chickens had survived this long. They were generally protected from foxes, but he saw two cats sunning themselves on top of one of the coops. Surely tinned food couldn’t be that much more appealing than a tasty, fresh chicken. But when Bond ventured into the pen to collect eggs and look for forensic evidence of feline murder, he found only eggs and aggressively curious chickens. The cats disdainfully ignored his presence; the chickens tried to steal the threads from his blue jeans.

As Q had explained, the sheep were definitely self-sufficient. Bond couldn’t find a hint of feed for them, and the property was big enough that they wouldn’t deplete the grass before it had a chance to recover. It was a bit odd seeing the sheep wandering free, without a dog or two in attendance, but they seemed healthy enough.

By the time he returned to the house with the morning’s eggs, he found Q had assembled the cats to serve up brunch. They were surprisingly polite to one another, though several of them eyed Bond distrustfully. And they were a chatty bunch, meowing loudly as though having a group discussion, often looking at Q as though expecting him to answer.

It was a bit odd, even for cats.

Q, for his part, seemed unable to resist talking back, though he would often catch himself and look over at Bond as if embarrassed at being caught out. Not that he said anything particularly odd — simple comments on the weather, comments on whether he’d seen fox tracks, or reassurances that Tabby was only gone for a couple weeks — but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

When he was done distributing the tins of various kinds of seafood, he came back to where Bond was standing, lids in hand, his throat and the tips of his ears flushed with chagrin. “Sorry. Tabitha treats them like people, so they expect nothing less from their sitters.”

At that, all eight cats looked up from their meals and meowed, and Q flushed just a shade darker but didn’t say anything.

“Strategic retreat, Quartermaster?” Bond suggested, wrapping an arm around Q’s shoulders to guide him inside. “They do outnumber us, after all.”

“Absolutely,” Q agreed, wrapping his own arm around Bond’s waist as he cast a backward look at the cats. “Bloody opinionated beasts. Though I suppose they serve their purpose.”

“Fortunately, that ‘purpose’ has nothing to do with hunting chickens. You didn’t give me a head count, but I found no evidence of violence,” Bond said, holding the door for Q. He followed Q inside and set the bowl of eggs on the counter. “We can pick up some nice cheese in the village. I’ll do omelets tomorrow.”

“You’ve seen the size of them,” Q said with a smile. “I think they prefer the rough and tumble of protecting the chickens from foxes more than they would the easy kill. Not that the chickens would be that easy to kill — Anna, the head of the flock, is a real bitch...” Q trailed off, looking at Bond, the chagrined look coming back. “For a chicken,” he finished lamely. “Sorry. My sister talks about them like people. It’s hard not to pick up the habit.”

Anthropomorphising pets or items was nothing new to Bond. More than one soldier in the field imagined a personality for a beloved piece of kit, from guns to vehicles. He’d learned better when Boothroyd had made him replace his Beretta with a Walther; even his new Walther, encoded to his palmprint, was simply a tool and not a part of himself or an individual with its own quirks and personality.

So he let it pass with a smile and said, “Your family seems very non-traditional.”

Q snorted. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said, pulling off the pink and purple Wellies he’d worn outside — apparently, he and his sister had the same sized feet — and tossing them carelessly into the mud room. “Except my dad. He was an ad exec in New York.”

“So, Endora’s your paternal grandmother?” Bond asked distractedly. He took one last look around the kitchen for anything else they’d need to pick up in the village. He suspected they’d be able to carry everything back, so there was no need to take the car. Daily walks to the village sounded appealing, in fact — at least when the weather was nice. Being here, away from the stress and pressure of London, was surprisingly appealing. He expected that he’d start to itch for the adrenaline thrill of a mission, but until then, he was determined to enjoy the peace and quiet.

“Maternal,” Q said. He disappeared down the hall for a minute and came back with trainers and socks. He sat on the floor to put them on, looking up at Bond. “My sister has something of a reputation for being a little nutty, as well-liked as she is, so we might get some interesting comments. Don’t feel like you have to defend her; I think she quite enjoys her status as crazy cat lady, and cultivates it as much as she can.”

Bond leaned against the bedroom doorway, turning over the possibilities in his mind. “So, how did you and your sister end up in the UK?” he asked, thinking it was more delicate than asking how Q — possibly an American, accent aside — had come to work in such a highly sensitive position at MI6.

“We moved here twenty-five years ago or so,” Q said, focusing on his shoes. “Thanks to a very convoluted family tree, we have citizenship in both countries. My parents went back to the States when I started uni.” He finished with his shoes and stood with a hop. “Rucksacks? Rucksacks.” He disappeared down the hall again.

Well, it was a logical curiosity; at least Q hadn’t got defensive with his answer. He shrugged and went to follow Q, saying, “I take it you prefer it here? Or did you simply get sucked into government work?”

Q walked to the end of the hall and put his hand on the doorknob of the last door on the left, frowning. He gave it a twist and a tiny tug, and peered through the crack, pointedly shielding the contents from Bond’s view. Then he gave a relieved huff and pulled it open all the way, revealing a storage room full of stacks of bags and blankets and shoes. “Tabby likes it here,” he said. “And I don’t particularly care about place as much as people. I spend most of my time working.”

“What else do you do? You’ve got to do something for fun,” Bond said, venturing into the bedroom-turned-storeroom to help Q search. “Reusable grocery bags will do just as well. We won’t buy much.”

“Working _is_ fun. At least, it _was_. Getting promoted like that... well, I’ve been avoiding getting stuck in executive roles for years. But with everything that happened, I couldn’t refuse in good conscience. The paperwork and meetings certainly are doing their best to suck the fun out of my job. It’s one of the reasons I needed this vacation so badly.” Q went to the storage shelves that covered the back wall and tugged out a couple of day-packs, worn with use but not dirty. “But it’s the same for you, isn’t it? You like your job, to the exclusion of much else.”

“Well, somewhat,” Bond said thoughtfully. “I’d _like_ to have more of a life, but there are only so many times I can drop projects or plans at the last minute before it’s not worth the effort to try. I certainly can’t have a relationship or pets or even a cactus, because you never know when I’ll be gone for three months at a time.” He tried not to sound bitter, though he wasn’t sure how well he did. He’d long since reconciled himself to the knowledge that he’d never have a normal life, and while he wouldn’t give up going on missions for anything, he also wouldn’t mind if they could be scheduled a bit further in advance than ‘go now’ or ‘I need you there yesterday’.

Q looked thoughtfully at Bond. There was an analytical edge to his expression, but he didn’t say anything in favour of trying on the rucksack. Obviously the pack was sized to Tabitha, and it took some adjustments before the straps were comfortable on him. He turned and gestured to the row of jackets on the far wall. “If you want a rain jacket, there is probably one there that’s your size.”

“Already packed mine. When you said Wales, I was hoping you meant the countryside rather than Cardiff.” Bond grinned at Q, impressed at how comfortable he was here at his sister’s house, so far from anything resembling the technological haven that was his office. “So, did you sneak a bit of the country into London as well? Do you live in one of her flats?”

“Not exactly,” Q said, pulling the straps loose enough to fit Bond. “I have the top floor of a building, and permission from the owner to use the roof. I’ve had a garden up there for years, but the only reason it thrives at all is because Tabby manages it. I just do what she tells me.” He smiled at Bond. “Believe it or not, the fact that I’m only home mostly at night means that she made it thematic. It’s a moon garden. Most of its blooms happen after sunset.”

“That sounds very _Addams Family_. Flowers that bloom at night, in London?” Bond wondered if Q would take offence if he hinted at an invitation to visit. He decided to let it pass, for now. He’d treat this as a holiday-only affair, which was more than he’d expected when he’d taken the assignment from Mallory.

“Well, some of them. Others are white and just don’t fold up once the sun goes down. The best part is that most of them smell as amazing as they look. I have a little iron patio set out there, and a swing. It’s a lovely place to unwind after a really stressful day.” Q stepped back and regarded Bond suspiciously. “Don’t share that little detail with anyone at MI6, please. Either I’ll be teased about it mercilessly, or the same executives I’m trying to escape will invite themselves over. Can you imagine having tea with Mallory and Eve at your home?” Q shuddered theatrically.

Remembering how he used to invite himself over to M’s home whenever he needed to badger her, Bond was glad he hadn’t hinted for an invite. “And that’s the other advantage of my leased, furnished flat,” he said casually. “I can disappear any time, with one call to the management company to get my clothes packed. I don’t even own the dishes.” He followed Q down the hall to their shared bedroom, where he’d hung his clothes earlier that morning, including a windcheater. He took it out of the closet, along with a thick jumper.

“Well, if you ever need to disappear but stay in London, you’re welcome to the garden,” Q said with a smile. “Something tells me you’d appreciate it as much as I do — maybe more, given how you don’t seem to mind watering. It’s a perfect little secret up there; no one would think to look. All I’d ask for in return is some of that amazing French toast of yours.” Q nudged Bond playfully and left the bedroom, chuckling.

Bond grinned, unaccountably pleased at the invitation. Whether their intimacy lasted beyond the vacation or not apparently wouldn’t affect their working relationship — their friendship, Bond ventured to think as he pocketed a knife and a spare magazine for his Walther. He pulled on the jumper, slid the rucksack over one shoulder, and carried the windcheater out to the kitchen, where Q was filling water bottles.

“I’d issue a reciprocal invitation, but you’ve seen where I currently live, and with luck, I won’t still be there in three months’ time. If I end up somewhere acceptable, you’re welcome over at any time. Otherwise, I’ll probably be in Alec’s spare room, and I wouldn’t wish that on even our enemies.”

Q tugged Bond close and tucked a water bottle in one of the rucksack’s side pockets. “You forget, I think your current flat is cosy. That couch...” He smirked and turned away to retrieve the other bottle from the counter to tuck into his own pack.

Wondering if that was an overture towards continuing their relationship after the holiday — and wondering how he felt about that — he got behind Q and pressed close, wrapping his free arm around Q’s body. “I’ll happily steal it, if that’s how you feel,” he offered, kissing Q’s neck.

Q tipped his head and hummed. “You know what? I don’t actually have a couch. A couple of very large, very squishy chairs, but that’s it. I wonder how I managed that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Bond said, thinking of more than one memorable armchair. He grinned against Q’s throat, kissed his jaw, and said, “I’d be happy to take you into the living room tonight to show you just how useful large, squishy chairs can be.”

“I like the sound of that.” Q turned and shoved his hands into Bond’s back pockets, tipping his head back again in invitation as he pulled their hips together gently.

In no rush to get to the village, now that he knew they weren’t going to be besieged by a herd of starving cows, Bond indulged with a long, slow kiss. He really needed to do this more often. He thought momentarily about finding the time for more than a string of one-night stands between missions, but underneath the flickering images of the bars and nightclubs where he usually found his partners, he thought about Q. It was a terrible idea for a thousand different reasons, and right here and now, he didn’t give a damn about a single one.

Q kissed back just as slowly, with just as much lazy indulgence, not pushing for more. He freed one of his hands from Bond’s pockets to run it slowly up his spine, then rest it on the back of Bond’s neck, lightly brushing at the hair at his nape. He chased Bond’s mouth for a moment after he finally pulled back, then turned to start kissing at Bond’s neck and ear instead. Then he laughed and rubbed his nose on Bond’s jaw. “Stubble,” he said with quiet amusement.

Bond laughed, closing his eyes to better feel Q’s exploration. It occurred to him, as he tipped his head to let Q work around the front of his throat, that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been intimate with someone and not actually had sex, in some form, in a matter of hours. And yet he and Q were nearly a day into the holiday, and all they’d done was to kiss and explore and taste, without any sort of urgency. There was no mission to complete, no spouse who might come home. For the first time in years, Bond was content not to rush. So he slid a hand up Q’s back, over his rucksack, and dragged his fingers through the long, soft strands teasing at his nape.

“Feel free to not shave,” he said, thinking that Q would be adorable with five o’clock shadow — or even a short beard.

Q traced the edges of Bond’s stubble with his tongue, and kissed him on his cheekbone. “Men like you look handsome with stubble and a beard. I just look... scruffy,” Q said before biting, very lightly, at the edge of Bond’s jaw.

“Scruffy. Scruffy is good.” Bond sighed and combed his fingers through Q’s hair again. Q, scruffy, would be absolutely fucking adorable, and here in Wales, Bond wouldn’t have any competition from any of the other agents — Alec included. “Neat and clean-shaven is for the office. You know, M mistrusted men with beards. She’d never accept ‘scruffy’.”

“Saying she mistrusted men with beards is suggesting that she trusted anyone at all,” Q huffed, ducking his head to continue his kisses and bites on Bond’s neck. He seemed to have a particular fascination with Bond’s Adam’s apple. “But I’m sensing a request in there somewhere. Consider my razor packed until you decide to pull it out. Though I’m holding you responsible for frightened locals.”

“I’m here to keep you safe.” Bond leaned into Q’s body, pushing him back a step, against the kitchen counter. “You worry about the cats and sheep. I’ll worry about the locals,” he offered, leaning in to kiss at Q’s ear before just holding him close. He fitted beautifully against Bond’s body; though he stood almost the same height as Bond, the differences in build caught Bond’s attention in ways men rarely did. In the field, his targets were either soft, indolent men, confident in their power, or men like himself: strong, deadly, and most likely out to kill. And at home, Bond tended towards clandestine affairs with married women as uncomplicated, without expectations and demands beyond an attentive dinner partner and casual sex.

Q brushed his arms up Bond’s back, then kept them wrapped around Bond’s shoulders as he relaxed in the embrace. He turned his head to rest his cheek on Bond’s shoulder, breath tickling his neck. “Sheep. Honestly. Of all the things you think you’d tell someone in your life, did you ever think you’d have cats and sheep at the top of the list of things to keep an eye on?” Q said with quiet amusement.

Bond didn’t even have to think about all the threats that normally filled his life. If not for overtraining and the responsibility of Q’s safety, he might have even considered leaving the Walther here at the cottage. It was refreshing. Freeing.

“If all I ever have to face are sheep and cats, I think I might well be just fine with that,” Bond said honestly as he looked out the window over the sink and petted Q’s hair.

Q sighed with contentment, and nuzzled into Bond’s neck, kissing him one more time before straightening. He threaded one hand through Bond’s and smiled. “Ready to face the gossipy, strange microcosm that is a tiny Welsh village?” he asked, squeezing Bond’s hand.

Bond returned the squeeze but then relaxed his hand and stepped back. “I don’t want to complicate your life. Do we go there as friends? Colleagues?”

Q looked at Bond thoughtfully but didn’t let go. “I think I quite prefer this,” he said with a smile. “Though if homophobia bothers you, perhaps it isn’t wise. Whenever my sister brings a girl to the village, she gets comments. I can only imagine it will be worse with men, especially ones who don’t live here.”

“I’m an outsider. If they don’t comment on us, they’ll find something to criticise,” Bond said with a shrug. “I just don’t want things made awkward for you or your sister. After all, your grandmother didn’t seem to approve of me.”

“Oh, well, she doesn’t approve of _anyone_ , so don’t let her make you feel bad,” Q said, an edge of venom in his voice. He stood and tugged Bond by the hand to the back door, grabbing the keys off the key rack as he went. “And my sister can take care of herself. Trust me.”

Pleased at the strength of character Q and his sister apparently shared, Bond closed his hand around Q’s and said, “Then let the villagers comment. It’s our damned holiday.”

 

~~~

 

This was going far, far too well.

The walk to the village was a relatively long one, by most people’s standards — a little over three kilometres — and would take them just under an hour. Q found himself forgetting entirely that he and Bond weren’t just lovers wandering the narrow country roads, dodging sheep and admiring the rolling hills and pastureland. He couldn’t help but be perhaps a little over-enthusiastic about the journey, if only because he was seeing the results of his sister’s handiwork all over the place. Though he wasn’t one for strenuous outdoor activity, it was remarkable to see the local resurgence of wildflowers that Tabby had been encouraging in the hills for years.

Foxglove, Welsh poppies, maiden pinks, dog roses, speedwell, and thrift... Q pointed them out whenever he saw them, neglecting to mention that some of them were absolutely out of season and were better suited to certain parts of England than Wales.

At one point, Q had even dragged Bond off the road when he spotted a patch of pale pink and orange at the edge of a little bit of wood on the side of the road. It was an impressive patch of bee orchid, and Q spent several minutes explaining how the plant was the only type of its species of orchid known to self-pollinate, making it a delight to experiment with.

With a laugh, Bond had said, “Now I can definitely see the resemblance between you and your sister,” and he’d pulled Q close for a sweet kiss.

Q let himself have a moment of panic at how quickly he was falling into this relaxed role with Bond. It was just... too easy. Too comfortable. When Bond had mentioned, back at the cottage, that he’d like a real relationship but didn’t see how it was possible for him, Q had _almost_ jumped at the opportunity to offer himself. It was only decades of hard-won self-control in the face of temptation that had held him back, though he hadn’t been able to resist offering his flat and his garden to Bond whenever he wanted to visit.

But gods was it a difficult temptation to resist. Bond was so beautiful and strong and available and — perhaps most importantly — unbreakable. The man had come back from the dead, like a fiery avenging angel, more times than a simple human being should be allowed. And in less than twenty-four hours, Q had found himself more comfortable with Bond than he had with any mortal in a long, long time.

The fact was, however, that this was all just a temporary holiday from the pressures of their real lives. As much fun as Bond was now, as relaxed as he was now, as relaxed as Q was now, it would be completely different when they got back. Q would be back to doing his best to not crack under pressure, spending all of his time keeping the agency together and the agents unharmed. Even though his last relationship had been with a fellow warlock, whose patience and understanding was wider than a typical mortal’s, the pressure was too much. The relationship had fractured, badly, and Q had to remind himself of those cold facts to keep from falling too much into the notion that this could actually last. As unbreakable as Bond seemed, he would probably grow just as tired and irritated with Q’s tendency to overinvest in his job as Taliesin had.

And that didn’t even take into account the stress of having to hide his magic.

By the time they reached the village, the moment of panic had passed, but Q was left much more subdued in its wake.

“Where to first?” he asked when they passed the first ring of homes that made up the outer edges of the village.

Bond squeezed Q’s hand and asked, “The pub, to sit down? You don’t look well. Need a rest?”

Q nodded, grateful that his reputation as a sunlight-hating king of cables meant that he wouldn’t have to explain his sudden lack of enthusiasm. “It’s not the walk,” he said with a chuckle as he scanned the street. “It’s the sunlight. Sadly, I am most definitely _not_ solar-powered.”

“Poor little vampire,” Bond teased affectionately, looking around. He quickly spotted a hanging sign for the Cross Keys pub and headed that way. “I can walk back to get the car, if you’d like. I wouldn’t want to risk you bursting into flames if the clouds part at the wrong moment.”

Q laughed, and peered up at the cloudy sky. “Hmmm... doesn’t look like I’ll be in too much danger any time soon,” he said with a smile. “Besides, we haven’t managed to spot the spreading bellflower yet, and I’d at least like to get a glimpse. It’s considered a critically endangered plant here, you know? It’s at the top of Tabby’s list of projects. That and meadow thistle, though I find myself having very little sympathy for the vanishing of thistle.”

Bond gave an exaggerated shudder. “I dealt with it often enough, back in Scotland. Let’s avoid those patches, shall we?” He glanced around again as he led Q across a quiet street. “Not many people here. Is it always this quiet?”

Q shrugged. “I have no idea. It is a weekday, but there should still be people out and about. Maybe they know something about the weather that we don’t? I probably should have checked before we left...” Q paused, then shook his head at how quickly he’d adapted to not having a mobile again. “But I don’t have my mobile and I’ve entirely neglected to crack my laptop even once. Perhaps it would be wise to ask if there is a storm moving in.”

“Let’s take this holiday to break you of your tech addiction,” Bond said, releasing Q’s hand to take his own mobile out of his pocket. He kept it hidden from Q as he started to type. “If it rains, will you melt? I’d say we could find lodging here tonight and walk back tomorrow, but the cats might burn down the house in revenge.”

“It’s not an addiction, it’s a lifestyle,” Q defended, trying to peek over Bond’s shoulder. “Besides, where would you and your fellow, uh, salesmen be without my addiction?”

“Holiday,” Bond scolded, cupping his hand over the screen. Then he shut the mobile down and stuck it back in his pocket. “Rain today. Take a moment for any expressions of surprise you’d like,” he added dryly as they reached the pub. He opened the door for Q.

Q hesitated only fractionally before he ducked into the pub. He hadn’t been joking in the slightest when he’d told Bond that Tabitha had a reputation, nor that they were likely to encounter some derision. Q had never understood mortals’ obsession with gender — it seemed like such an odd thing to get hung up on, all things considered — but he hadn’t spent enough time outside of MI6 or Taliesin’s home city over the past eight years to remember how he should act in the strange little setting of a countryside pub.

Inside the pub, there was a surprising lack of windows but plenty of ambient light. The pub was the warm brown of old wood from floor to ceiling, smelled of tobacco and alcohol, and was cosy in a way that London pubs were never quite able to replicate. A long green bench with an equally long, narrow table lined the left wall, but most of the furniture was comprised of battered but sturdy barstools, two-seater marble tables, and, in the centre, an old barrel as a card table. The two weather-beaten men who sat there looked up from their cards with expectation, then surprise, when Q walked in. He hesitated inside the door, scanning the colourful display of bottles and artistic display of upside down glasses over the bartender’s head, unsure where Bond would want to sit. The bar looked inviting, curved and well-lit, but it wasn’t very private.

“Take a seat,” Bond said, gesturing towards one of the corner tables. “I’ll get the first round.” Looking relaxed, as if he’d been there before and belonged there, he went to the bar.

Relieved that at least one of them was comfortable with mortals in their natural habitat, Q nodded and claimed the cleanest-looking table in the corner. The pub wasn’t full, so Q shoved the chairs behind him into the table, giving himself more room to stretch his legs. He wondered if the pub would be unpleasant when it was full, or if mortals had some secret way of manipulating space to make themselves fit without banging elbows. Q certainly couldn’t see how the pub would manage not to burst at the seams if every seat had an occupant.

He watched as Bond chatted with the barman, whose expression went from guarded to cheerful in minutes. Once two glasses were filled and social niceties satisfied, Bond came to the table and put Q’s down for him. “Nice enough, but definitely not your sister’s type of pub.”

Q pulled the pint towards him and sipped experimentally. “What do you mean?” he asked, looking around. There were no plants here, certainly, but nothing overtly screamed ‘unfriendly to botanists’.

“You mentioned girlfriends,” Bond said with a little shrug. “Can’t you feel it? They’re suspicious enough of outsiders as it is.”

Q cast a glance around before focusing back on Bond. “I’m not very good with people,” he confessed. Though he’d spent most of his childhood in suburban Connecticut, the truth was that his family was just strange enough to never really make it into anyone’s inner circle. Add to that all the time spent at Grandmother’s, and then the self-isolation of university and military intelligence, and Q had always felt just a little out of step. Not that most people found it suspicious. Geeks were expected to be socially awkward, after all.

“I almost never get the chance to do this,” Bond admitted, glancing around. “Go somewhere new, where I’m _not_ looking to interrogate or kill someone.”

Q laughed quietly and took another drink of his surprisingly good ale. “I’m sure if it weren’t a novel experience for us, it’d actually be quite boring.” He shifted in his seat and pulled some of the flowers he’d picked along the way out of his pocket to set on the table. He’d told Bond it was because his sister liked samples, but honestly it had just been impulse. There wasn’t nearly enough vibrancy or colour in Q Branch.

Bond leaned in and ran a finger through the flowers. “Present yourself as an interested scholar or hobbyist, and you could probably get access to a wealth of knowledge,” he said quietly, tipping his head to indicate the two old men at the card table. “They’ve probably both been here all their lives. The barman’s not local — northerner. The foursome at the booth by the bar are tourists.”

Q smiled. “Thank you for the sitrep,” he said, brushing his own hand over Bond’s. “That probably means the old men are friends of my sister’s, the barman probably dislikes her for having hit on her and either been rejected or accepted then turned away later, and the foursome could be useful witnesses in case I need to defend her honour,” he said with a laugh. “Isn’t that how it works in small towns?”

Bond leaned back in his seat, grinning in amusement. “The old men are KGB defectors, trying to blend in. The barman’s a money launderer who married a Spanish woman he met while on holiday, only to discover her father’s in organised crime. The foursome are anarchists looking to make contact with the remnants of the IRA, only they’re tourists, so they got confused between Wales and Ireland,” he challenged softly before he took a drink.

It took Q a moment to decide he could really, really like this game. With a wicked smirk, he surveyed the pub-goers. “The barman is a refuge from the Sidhe — actually nearly four hundred years old, though he only remembers the last ten, when he was finally returned from the hills after he solved their last riddle challenge. The tourists are actually an unlikely pack of werewolves, moving from town to town in an effort to stay under the radar and away from potential rivals. Sheep, not people, make up their diet. Obviously.” He grinned and nodded the card players. “A couple of old mystics who quietly keep an eye on everything to make sure the local brownie population doesn’t get out of control.”

Absolutely delighted, Bond raised his glass to Q. “I concede. You’re bloody brilliant. What the hell are you doing in computers, when you could be writing, with that imagination?”

Q raised his glass in return and quit grinning long enough to take a drink. “I like working with computers. And with... companies like ours. Apart from the stress, of course. There _is_ still some imagination involved, as long as I get to spend time in R &D again someday.”

“Sod R&D. I’m sending you to that lab at Baskerville so you can make me a bloody dragon to take in the field. Do you have any idea the sales efficiency increase I’d get with a dragon? Everyone’s terrified of them. Look at that naked blond girl in that show...” He gestured with his glass. “The one with the family all hacking each other apart all the time.”

“Huh?” Q asked, drawing on his limited knowledge of mortal television shows and coming up blank. He didn’t particularly care for telly, and had no time for it, so he didn’t bother. He wished he could actually show Bond real dragons, which were far less fierce and much more cuddly than people assumed, but alas.

“Felix,” Bond said dismissively. “It’s an American programme. We watched a whole bloody series when I spent two weeks in DC last spring. Your imagination is easily as good — _Game of Thrones_. That’s it,” he said, remembering. “You could do that.”

“I suppose it could be fun, telling stories,” Q said with a shrug. “Have Tabby build me my own cottage in the countryside. Spend my days wandering around half-dressed, making up tales, never have to worry about life or death situations again.”

Bond’s smile turned wistful. “There are worse retirement plans.” He took another drink and leaned forward again, idly picking up and dropping each flower in turn. “You’re new to the company,” he said slowly. “If you’re not careful, they’ll eat you alive. Take everything you offer and just keep demanding more. It’s the nature of the business.”

Q reached forward and picked up Bond’s hands, threading them through his own. It was true, but so was the fact that they’d both chosen that lifestyle. They both thrived on the adrenaline and pressure and being useful and needed and important. He also didn’t bother asking what Bond’s retirement plan was; Q knew better. Double O’s very rarely made it that far.

“I’ll remind you that you said that in, oh, about a week when you’re going out of your mind with boredom,” Q said instead, smiling as he rubbed his thumb over Bond’s hand.

Bond grinned. “Looks like you’ll just have to keep me entertained. Next round is yours to get.”

“All right,” he said with a smirk, wondering if Bond would hold back, and if he could encourage him not to. “But if I end up singing the songs of my childhood as you drag me out of here, you have to promise not to leave me alone to get the car. I’m sure the rain will do me good on the walk home.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Tuesday, 30 April 2013**

It was almost surreal, how bizarrely domestic this whole scene was. Q was definitely slightly less than sober, and walking down the aisles of the local shop, arm-in-arm with James Bond, assassin extraordinaire, to buy a coffee pot, was not on the list of things Q ever thought he’d be doing.

“Can we get something without a burner on the bottom?” he asked, squinting at the regrettably limited selection. “I always forget to turn it off when I’ve finished. There have been fires.”

“And they put _you_ in charge of our tech division?” Bond teased, dragging Q down the aisle a couple of metres. He picked up a box without even looking at it and tucked it into the trolley they were both trying to steer. “Anything else? Toaster? Espresso machine? Something for the sheep?”

Something colourful caught Q’s eye, and he let go of Bond’s arm long enough to make his way over to it. “A snow cone maker,” he said with something like awe. He picked it up, grinning at the photo of icy colours swirled majestically over a paper cup and the happy child behind it. “We’re in a tiny, local grocer’s, in Wales, in spring. And there is a snow cone maker.” He held it up as proof to Bond.

“You don’t spend much time in pubs, do you?” Bond asked, trying not to laugh as he extracted the box from Q’s hands. He didn’t put it back on the shelf, though he also didn’t put it in the trolley. “If you didn’t hate flying so much, I’d take you to one of the top ice cream houses in the world, in Jamaica.”

“But we’re in a tiny village in Wales,” Q pointed out, taking the box back to shove on the shelf. “Honestly.” It was the novelty of it that had caught Q off guard — too bright and too modern to belong in this charming little village where witches and warlocks could hide without too much trouble. “I don’t hate flying. I’m afraid of airplanes,” he pointed out as he wandered down the aisle, trying to see if they had the large jugs of flavoured syrups that went with the snow cone maker.

Bond caught him around the waist, surprising him with a display of affection that wasn’t even close to discreet, as he’d been for their entire trip. “Get it, if you want. I’ll even let you make dessert with it, though I’d planned something more intimate. Unless you _like_ ice,” he said, his voice dropping to a dark, rich purr in Q’s ear.

Q forgot all about the snow cone maker in the sudden rush of desire that ignited under his skin. He let himself fall backwards against the shelf which, mercifully, was bolted to the wall, and tugged Bond back with him. It had been _hours_ since they’d last kissed — which was longer than he’d gone without, except during sleep, since they’d started this mad little holiday. He wrapped a leg around Bond’s and kissed him fiercely, one hand at Bond’s waist and the other in his hair.

Bond responded without hesitation, pressing Q back against the shelves, trapping him. Distantly, Q heard an indignant huff and a crackly old lady’s voice say, “Disgusting!”

Anger and irritation rose up in Q, and he lifted his hand from Bond’s waist to wave in the direction of the old lady’s voice, a sharp _go away_ echoing in his head. Then he refocused his attention on Bond, only to find that Bond had stopped kissing him, and was turning his head.

Q came to two simultaneous realisations. One, in his moment of distracted irritation, he’d turned the old lady into a goat. Two, the bleating of said goat had captured Bond’s attention, and if Q wasn’t quick, Bond would turn to see the awful little beast behind them, dressed in a sun hat and a fox-skin coat.

Q waved his hand again to fix it, then closed his eyes and held his breath, hoping he’d been fast enough. He felt Bond go still and heard the old lady gasp, followed by the tapping of shoes — he _hoped_ they were shoes, and that he hadn’t left her with goat-feet.

With a huff, Bond backed off, tugging Q away from the shelves. “Let’s finish up here,” he suggested, sounding just a little wary. “I think Alec’s ruined my tolerance for decent ale. All his damned vodka.”

Q didn’t bother trying to hide his relief. He wrapped his arm around Bond’s waist again and stayed close, but didn’t say anything or make eye contact with anyone, Bond included. The sheer _stupidity_ of his rashness demanded his attention entirely, and Q wondered what the hell was wrong with him. Not only had he performed a bit of rather obvious magic in a fairly public place; he’d done so without actual intent. He hadn’t meant to turn her into a goat, he just wanted her to go away. And thank the gods and goddesses that wish hadn’t manifested as, say, separating all her atoms and sending them into the atmosphere to play.

What the _hell_?

Quietly, Bond finished the shopping in the grocery aisles, stocking up with only as much as they could carry. He packed everything in their rucksacks, giving Q the lighter, bulkier items, reserving the heavier ones for himself. Then Bond handed over his windcheater and made Q put it on before he returned Q’s rucksack.

“Shocking to think it rains here,” he said wryly as he led Q out into the drizzle. “Can you see without your glasses, or do you not mind the lenses getting spotted?”

“It’s fine,” Q said, hefting the pack. “You’ll just have to tell me if you see any bellflower plants.”

Had it been the alcohol? It had been a long, long time since Q had had drinks with a mortal. Maybe he’d just gotten so used to drinking with Taliesin that he’d forgotten entirely what it was like to have to try and hold back. If that were the case, he’d either have to ensure he never drank with mortals again, or he’d drink a lot more to build up his impulse control while under the influence.

Bond caught his sleeve to tug him the right way at the corner. “Which ones are those?”

“Delicate-looking purple flowers that really are shaped like bells,” Q answered, scanning the horizon. “You don’t actually have to look. It’s highly, highly unlikely that we’ll actually see any.” With a sigh, he pulled the now damaged-beyond-saving flower heads that he’d picked earlier and scattered them on the ground. Perhaps one of those had magical properties he didn’t know about, though he couldn’t imagine a flower having much of an impact on making magic so easily projected. It seemed like Tabitha would have said something.

As the flowers fell, Bond caught his hand and stopped walking. “Q?” he asked quietly, covering the last of the flowers with his free hand. He held tight and stepped closer, saying, “Don’t let her bother you. She’s old and closed-minded and not worth another moment of your time.”

Q smiled at Bond, wishing he could tell him that the obnoxious old lady _herself_ wasn’t the problem — it was that Q’s moment of distraction could have cost her her life. “You’re absolutely right,” he said, squeezing his hand back. “Bellflowers like the roadsides, and the sheep don’t eat them, but for some reason they just don’t thrive anymore. But Tabby tosses handfuls of seeds in the ditches all the time, so keep an eye out.”

Deliberately, Bond leaned close and kissed him, and though it was brief, Q could feel the warm affection in it, so unexpected from an agent like James Bond. Then, to Q’s surprise, Bond crouched down and sorted out the least-damaged flowers, and then gently put them back in Q’s hand.

“Sure you want to walk? I don’t mind fetching the car for you,” he offered, taking the hand that wasn’t full of wet flowers.

“And sit here for an hour, waiting?” Q asked with chuckle. He carefully tucked the flowers back into his pocket, thinking he’d take them back and dry them flat. “Besides, I never miss an opportunity to jump in a mud puddle.”

Bond grinned at him and started walking again. “I’m not going to argue with the company.” He glanced sidelong at Q. “I’ll admit, you’ve surprised me. I didn’t think you’d survive away from your office for even a weekend.”

“I’m not actually as bad as I seem,” Q said with a smile. “The explosion, the promotion, and everything else... I grew up in a pretty tech-free environment, you know. I can handle it without going through withdrawal.”

“Tell me about it — where you grew up. Connecticut, you said?” Bond asked, letting go of Q’s hand to push Q’s wet fringe away from his glasses. “What was it like there?”

“Much like a 1960s American sitcom,” Q confessed, pulling off his glasses to ineffectually dry them off on his shirt sleeve. “Dad commuted by train into the city. We went to school, played in the neighbourhood when we got back. Mom cooked and cleaned. Relatives dropped in frequently and caused all sorts of chaos.” Remembering who he was talking to, he cleared his throat and tried to focus on dates. “It was a bit old fashioned for the era, I suppose, but it worked well enough for us.”

“You and your sister were close, then?”

“We were as children, but we drifted apart for a few years. Moving to London helped.” Q spotted a purple flower and headed towards it, hoping it was a bellflower just for the distraction. There were many things he couldn’t talk about with Bond without dates and ages getting fuzzy, and Q was a terrible liar. Asking about Bond’s life in return wasn’t going to work because Q already knew the whole story, thanks to executive access to agent files, and there was no use in pretending he didn’t. He bent over the mound of flowers, lifting one from where it was bent under the rain. “False alarm.”

“And your grandmother?” Bond asked, taking Q’s hand again as he started to walk.

“What about her?” Q asked, looking over at Bond curiously. “She didn’t live near us. Just visited a lot, much to my father’s consternation.”

“Are you close now? She’s very eccentric,” Bond said delicately.

Q laughed. “That’s putting it mildly,” he admitted. “She tends to pop in and out, but she doesn’t approve of what we’re doing with our lives” — _as mortals_ , he didn’t add — “so she mostly stays away. Though I draw her ire more than Tabby.”

“Is it because you’re” — he hesitated for just a moment — “gay? Bi? I’m sorry — we were kissing long before I thought to ask.” He grinned.

Q laughed and headed back to the road from the plant that wasn’t bellflower. “No. In fact, the time we got along the best was when I was dating a, uh, man she approved of.” He chuckled at the memory of Taliesin and Endora trying to out-magic each other on a picnic. “First and last partner of one of her children or grandchildren she’s ever approved of. Poor woman.”

“You mentioned something about that,” Bond hinted.

Now there was a path Q didn’t feel the slightest bit like travelling down. He glanced over at Bond, feeling as if the conversation had tipped too far into Q’s personal life without reciprocation from Bond. “What about you? Do you have any extended family you spend time with?”

There was the faintest twitch of Bond’s hand against Q’s. “No. No family.”

Feeling unaccountably guilty, Q looked away. “Except Alec?” he asked. “You know what they call you at MI6, right? The Twin Gods of Chaos.”

Bond’s laugh was a bit tense, though it was genuine. “Except Alec,” he conceded. “Twenty years, we’ve been close, even when we weren’t stationed together. We’ve outlived or outlasted almost everyone at MI6 by now — at least in the field division. Only Danielle’s been there longer.”

“I wonder why Danielle doesn’t get a cool nickname,” Q mused, pulling his glasses off to clean again. “She’s been there longer than anyone, has the highest mission guidance success rate of anyone in Q Branch, and is the only person the old M genuinely respected. If you two get to be gods, why doesn’t she get to be a goddess?”

“ _You_ tell Danielle she’s been given a nickname. Just wait till I’m out of the country, please,” Bond said with a shudder. “And I apologise — I should have asked. Do you prefer ‘Adam’?”

Q shrugged. “I don’t care,” he said honestly. “Q or Adam or... hell, I really don’t care. Just as long as you don’t let it slip at MI6.”

Bond smirked at him. “Consider it our secret,” he said, pulling Q close to put an arm around his shoulders. The rain had picked up, soaking Bond’s jumper, sending heavier drips down the back of Q’s borrowed windcheater. “Any other secrets you’d like to share?”

“Too many to start rattling off willy nilly,” Q answered, shivering at the water and leaning tight against Bond. “Ask away if there is something in particular you want to know, but you know how I am. Not a ‘sharer’ by nature.”

Bond lowered his arm and pulled Q close. “If there’s something in particular I want to know, I have a terrible habit of snooping. Call it overtraining,” he said with a quick grin before he turned and kissed Q’s cold, rain-damp cheek. “Next time, I’ll drive to pick up supplies, and we can take our walks somewhere private. I have a sneaking suspicion you’ve never learned to properly appreciate the woods.”

Q felt a twinge of discomfort at the idea that Bond would snoop into his history, not because he actually wanted to hide anything, but because it was all fractured enough not to make any sense, and that would _definitely_ trip Bond’s suspicions. But he pushed it away to close his eyes and give himself over to the idea of Bond taking him out to the forest and...

His thoughts stumbled as another spike of arousal derailed the vision of him and Bond on picnic blanket in the woods. He shivered, this time not from the chill rain, and let his head fall against Bond’s shoulder. “I’ve never done that, no,” he finally said after a moment. “But I think I would like it very much.”

 

~~~

 

The walk back to the cottage did little to quiet the nagging discord in Bond’s mind. _Something_ was wrong, though he couldn’t quite narrow it down.

No, he could: It was the old woman at the store. When she’d made her stroppy, sarcastic comment, Q had reacted... and then his mood shifted. He’d become distracted, even pensive. But it had nothing to do with homophobia, as far as Bond could tell. Q hadn’t hinted at some past traumatic experience with it.

That alone wouldn’t have been enough to worry Bond. Neither was Q’s strange grandmother. Or his sister. Or the odd behaviour of the cats and sheep. Even the chickens didn’t seem quite normal. And there was _something_ about the house, as if his sister had installed hidden cameras in every room.

No one thing alone would have worried Bond... but combined, they all served to set him on edge, though he did his best to hide it. Q was intelligent and attractive and surprisingly fun to be around when he wasn’t issuing threats against agents who might be less-than-careful with his equipment in the field. As long as he didn’t betray England, there was nothing Bond couldn’t forgive — including trying to kill him. Bond had certainly slept with enough people who were trying to kill him (on two memorable occasions, _at the same time_ ) that it no longer fazed him at all.

But Bond also hadn’t reached his rank at MI6 — hadn’t _survived_ this long — without developing a certain level of tenacity. Show him a hint of suspicious behaviour, and he was compelled to dig at it until all secrets were revealed. That was how he kept surviving, despite everything his enemies threw at him. Alec, too, but Alec wasn’t here.

Rather suddenly, he found himself wishing Alec _were_ here. Because then he could shorthand his suspicions to Alec in a few brief, concise sentences, and Alec would inevitably say that one crucial statement or ask that one critical question for all the pieces to rattle into place. That was how they worked.

Maybe he’d go for a walk later and call Alec, assuming the sheep didn’t listen in.

And _that_ was a ridiculous thought.

As soon as Q unlocked the cottage door, Bond herded him inside and tugged the rucksack off his back. “Right into the bath with you,” he ordered, setting his rucksack and the shopping bag with the coffee pot on the kitchen counter. “I’ll unpack.”

Q laughed and let himself be herded, but he didn’t immediately start shedding his clothes. “Sounds perfect, but I have to close the shutters on the windows for you. I’ll be right back.” He leaned up to give Bond a kiss on the cheek and turned to head back outside.

Bond caught him, gave him another kiss, and turned to block the exit. “Go fill the tub. I’ll take care of the shutters. No need for you to get even more wet.”

Q looked a little uncertain. “Are you sure? They’re a little finicky. And I’m the one who has the jacket on.”

“Go,” Bond insisted, firmly ignoring the hint of suspicion that cropped up. Why would Q insist on going back out into the rain? It was the end of April, yes, but it was chilly enough that Q had to be freezing. He gave Q a push towards the hallway and turned to their rucksacks to put away the groceries.

Q chuckled and pulled off the windcheater to hang by the door. “All right, if you insist,” he said, kicking off his muddy shoes and leaving them on the mat. He started to walk to the bathroom, but stopped mid-stride, paused, and turned back. Very gently, he reached inside one of the jacket pockets and pulled out the flowers Bond had rescued for them. He gave Bond an almost abashed look, and smiled. “I think I’ll dry them, after the bath,” he said, and carefully laid them out on the counter. He arranged the petals to lay flat, then turned again and headed to the bathroom.

Bond smiled and continued putting away the groceries, but when Q was gone, he turned to look at the flowers.

 _Flowers_. And not exotic flowers from the rainforest or remote Tibet. Local wildflowers. Bond recognised half of them, though he couldn’t put names to them. What the hell was the Quartermaster of MI6 doing collecting _flowers_? And not even in a romantic way, but in some sort of odd quasi-scientific curiosity.

He wanted to ignore it. He wanted to push it all away, to enjoy the holiday and Q’s presence. But the last time he’d wilfully ignored his suspicions had been with Vesper, and look how that had turned out.

But Q wasn’t Vesper. Q had proven his loyalty and competence over and over again. Bond had ignored the subtle hints of wrongness about Vesper — the way she held a part of herself back. He’d never confronted her.

Now, though, he wouldn’t settle for wilful ignorance. He wouldn’t settle for anything less than honesty from Q.

 

~~~

 

Q settled in the tub with a sigh, ignoring the prickles of heat where the chill from the rain made his skin extra sensitive. He still hadn’t come up with any satisfactory conclusion as to how he’d managed a bit of unintentional magic, but he was done thinking about it for now. He had had a good time today, and there was no reason to hold onto something that he couldn’t change. He’d just have to be more careful.

It wasn’t long before a rattle caught his attention, and Q looked up to see the storm covers over the bathroom windows start to move. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d told James that they could be fairly tricky to manoeuvre; the fact was that Tabby used magic to protect the windows, and the covers were almost strictly for show. The only time they moved was, well, for reasons like this. Q kept an eye out for falling birds’ nests, but did feel strangely better as the first shutter fell into place.

Bond came in a few minutes later. He closed the bathroom door, but instead of stripping to join Q in the tub, he sat down on the edge, watching Q with disconcerting intensity.

Somewhat alarmed, Q sank a little deeper into the water. This wasn’t a ‘getting ready for sex’ attitude, as far as he could tell; it was a ‘I need to talk to you’ attitude, and Q had no idea, in this context, what Bond would demand from him. “What’s wrong?”

“I think you know,” Bond said quietly. He was watching Q but not warily, as if expecting to be attacked. Then again, he didn’t need to be wary; Q could clearly see the Walther holstered in the waistband of his blue jeans. “Something isn’t right here.”

Q stared at Bond, disappointment crashing through him in waves. He was disappointed that the conversation had to happen like this, with Q stripped both physically and, if they had the actual conversation, metaphorically as well, as Bond literally looked down at him without the same disadvantage. He was disappointed that Bond had to ask now, a day into their holiday, when they hadn’t even actually got to anything more than kissing and cuddling. He was disappointed that he’d either have to lie, causing Bond to leave, or tell the truth, causing Bond to leave.

And what _would_ Q say? They weren’t in a relationship. It wasn’t anything like what happened to his parents, where they fell in love first, got married, then had ‘the conversation’. When this was all over, Q and Bond would both go back to their normal lives at MI6, and Q didn’t know if he could share this with someone who wasn’t really a part of his life.

Bond’s touch on one shoulder startled Q out of his thoughts. He looked up at met Bond’s eyes. “There are too many questions. You know me, Q. You know I _need_ to ask. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Q swallowed, torn desperately between wanting to believe that and the cold logic that said he shouldn’t say anything even if it were true. And Q had no experience with this — he’d never ‘outed’ himself to a mortal, ever. He didn’t even know where to start.

“My family is different from most people,” he finally settled on. It wasn’t enough — it wasn’t even close to getting to the heart of the issue — but it was at least the truth. Q still had no idea what, if anything, to say more.

Bond let out a brief laugh, barely a huff of air. “That was obvious the moment I talked to your grandmother on the phone.”

“What is it that makes you think we’re just anything but... quirky?” Q asked, watching Bond but not meeting his eyes. Maybe if he took it on an incident-by-incident approach, he wouldn’t actually have to address the bigger picture.

“Too many little things.” Bond sighed and turned to face Q a bit more, sitting sideways on the edge of the huge tub. “It’s always the little things. You can learn a foreign language, study the culture, but there’s always _one thing_ that you don’t know or can’t recall quickly enough. After twenty years of being close to Alec, he can still point out a hundred things that mark me as not Russian.”

Q sank even further into the tub, not looking at Bond at all anymore. That _hurt_ , in a way Q hadn’t expected it to. “We’re not British,” he defended pointlessly, knowing Bond wasn’t accusing him of being nationally foreign. He was accusing them of being not-mortal. Other. Which... fair enough. But it still stung.

“I know.” Bond moved to crouch beside the tub, trying to catch Q’s gaze. “I’m not accusing you of being a traitor, Q. Not after everything you’ve done for MI6 — for me,” he said, tightening his hand on Q’s shoulder. “I’m just trying to understand. Please, help me out here.”

Q looked over at Bond, searching his expression one more time before answering. Stupidly, foolishly, he was going to tell the truth — or, a watered down version of it, anyway. He knew that Bond was going to leave, to process, but he wouldn’t actually do anything to physically hurt Q. As long as Q provided him physical proof, he wouldn’t have him sectioned. But this would be the end of their intimacy, and Q regretted that more than he thought he would.

“We have... abilities,” Q said with a shrug, looking away again. “Tabby and I grew up with, uh, people who didn’t, so it’s easier for us to seem normal. But Endora didn’t, and she rarely tries to blend in.”

Bond moved his hand from Q’s shoulder to his hair, combing his fingers through the strands, careful not to pull. “You know my next question,” he prompted.

Q leaned into the touch and closed his eyes, intensely gratefully that Bond hadn’t immediately recoiled from him. They weren’t even close to the scary parts yet, but it was a start — a promising start. He took a deep breath, focusing on the grounding of Bond’s hand in his hair, trying to decide where to start.

“Have you ever seen telekinesis?” he asked softly.

Bond took a deep breath, though he didn’t stop stroking Q’s hair. “If I say no, I get the feeling that this conversation ends. If I say yes, you can throw me to the wolves in Psych,” he said with a soft laugh. “Can we agree that I’ve spent too much time in the field and never found adequate answers to explain everything?”

“I could just show you, I suppose, but then you’ll leave and we’ll never finish this conversation,” Q said with a shrug that he hoped hid his misery at the truth of it.

“Q... If you’re telling me you and your family are psychic, that’s... fine.” Bond ran his fingers down Q’s face to his chin. “The CIA weren’t the only ones experimenting with that sort of thing. I’ve seen enough records to know it’s real.”

Q still refused to open his eyes, because the conversation _wasn’t_ over, and it would just get harder from here. It wouldn’t take long for Bond to figure out that being psychic wasn’t the whole of it, and then they’d have to start all over again.

“We’re not psychic, not exactly,” Q said softly. “Telekinesis is part of it, but not all of it. And I can’t read your thoughts or tell the future, as handy as that would be. Can you imagine how effective I’d be then?” He chuckled quietly. “They’d probably send me into the field instead of letting me stay in Q Branch.”

“I wouldn’t let them,” Bond said, an edge coming into his voice. “You’re perfectly effective right where you are.”

Q finally opened his eyes and looked up, surprised. Though Bond had been hinting at small bits of dissatisfaction with the toll his job had taken on him, Q knew ‘loyal’ wasn’t nearly a strong enough word for how Bond felt about England and MI6. The idea that Bond would choose to protect Q over MI6’s interests was deeply reassuring.

“They don’t know,” he suddenly remembered to tell Bond. “And they can’t.”

“There’s no reason for them _to_ know,” Bond said as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “And unless I’m mistaken, aren’t you the one who’d start any programme to look into that sort of thing?”

Q let out a sigh of relief and pressed against where Bond’s hand was still on his face. Some tight knot of tension that he’d been holding since the conversation started — since Bond arrived here with him, Q realised — loosened, and he found he could speak more easily. “It’s not something to look into,” he explained. “It’s a culture. People like us have abilities that, uh, normal people don’t have, and we tend to stick together far away from everyone else. My mother is one, but my father isn’t, which is why Tabby and I are so different, but still here.”

Bond pressed his thumb against Q’s jaw to tip his face up. Careful not to get his shirt wet, Bond leaned over and kissed Q’s forehead, then his lips. “Is that all?”

Relief almost had Q blurting out assurances, but it was all or nothing, and Q wasn’t going to allow himself to hope for anything until Bond knew everything. At least, in the broad strokes. He looked up to meet Bond’s eyes, and said “We’re witches.”

“You’re not female,” Bond countered wryly. “At least, I’m _nearly_ positive of that.”

Caught off-guard by the unexpected but incredibly wonderful response, Q laughed. “It’s true,” he said between bouts of humour. “Technically, I’m a warlock.” He covered his face with his hands, still laughing, and sank deeper into the water, giddy with relief.

Bond rose up on his knees so he could lean in and silence Q’s laughter with another kiss, this one deeper and without the tension that had marked Bond since he’d entered the bathroom. “That explains the cats,” he said, drawing back to meet Q’s eyes. “I suspected your sister was too young to be aiming for spinsterhood.”

“She actually _likes_ the crazy cat lady stereotype,” Q said with another chuckle. “People expect them to be odd in incomprehensible ways. Two of them are actually uncles of mine, after an incident we are absolutely are _never_ allowed to talk about.” He reached up, not caring that he was going to get Bond wet, and put his hand on Bond’s arm, staring in fascinated relief.

“Your _uncles_?” Bond asked, blinking in surprise for the first time.

Q leaned in close to whisper, hoping Paul and Balthazar weren’t just outside the door to hear. “They didn’t start out as cats. My great-grandmother lost her temper.”

Bond’s eyes went wide. “That’s... Would that be _Endora’s_ mother?” he asked apprehensively.

“Oh, don’t worry, she never visits here. And for all her intense dislike of my father, Endora never managed to do him any harm. Don’t worry. You’re safe with me,” he said with a smirk.

“Fine, but if she _does_ turn me into a cat, I will _destroy_ your furniture until you fix it,” Bond threatened.

Though Q had never had this conversation with a mortal, he was relatively certain that this was going well. Really, really well. Q knelt up in the tub and wrapped himself around Bond in a slightly awkward, wet hug, grateful beyond explanation that Bond wasn’t threatening sectioning, demanding details, or even proof. “Thank you,” he said quietly, holding on tightly.

Bond held him, ignoring the way his clothes soaked through, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “It’s all right. I won’t tell anyone,” he said softly. Then, a bit more thoughtfully, he asked, “Q?”

Q looked up nervously. “Yes?”

“Can _you_ turn people into cats?”

Q hesitated, but there was never any option but for him to tell the truth. For all Bond’s acceptance and kindness, he’d earned it. “Yes.”

He felt Bond’s grin against his face. “Eve shot me off a bridge. That wasn’t very kind of her, was it?”

Q laughed, and pulled free Bond from his damp jumper. “No, it wasn’t. I bet she isn’t a very nice cat, though. All claws and teeth and yowling. I’m not sure my sister would want to throw her in with our poor uncles.”

“We could lock her in Mallory’s office,” Bond proposed, grinning wickedly as he unbuckled his belt. “Or send her to Tanner’s house. He has two daughters. Little girls love cats.”

Q laughed again, trying his best to help Bond, though he mostly just got in the way. “That would be a horribly mean thing to do to those little girls. I can’t imagine Eve is the cuddling type.”

“No, she’s...” Bond pulled the holster off his belt, frowning distantly for a moment. “Are you _really_ frightened of aeroplanes?”

“Yes,” Q said with a sigh. “Flying is a beautiful and wonderful thing, but flying, stuck in a mechanical death trap, where you can’t feel the air currents or see the weather? I’m not claustrophobic, but I just can’t do that. It’s too removed. Too unnatural.”

“Unfortunate,” Bond said, leaning over to put his gun on the counter without dislodging from Q’s embrace. He let Q pull off his shirt as he lifted his hips to push down his jeans and pants. “I was disappointed when she showed up, rather than you.”

“Really?” Q asked, sliding forward to sit in the middle of the tub to make room for Bond. “I didn’t get the impression that you’d ever really looked twice at me. I mean, I know I was helpful, but...” He shrugged.

“I don’t assume men are interested without reason,” Bond pointed out logically. He leaned down to strip off his socks. “Everyone knows about the field agents, but that’s the job, not preference.”

“I’ve been... distracted,” Q admitted with another shrug. _Distracted_ didn’t even begin to cover it. Not that Q had been looking for another lover. Which, of course, was an interesting thought. Did this mean that whatever this was might actually last for longer than two weeks?

“Which makes this holiday all the more important.” Bond turned and stepped into the tub, straddling Q’s legs. He sank down, resting his weight on his knees rather than on Q, and leaned close to take Q’s face between his hands. “Now it’s my turn to distract you. Anything you’d prefer?” he asked, leaning in to brush Q’s lips with his own.

All thoughts about magic, planning, and relationships promptly vacated Q’s mind, along with anything else that might even be called remotely rational. He closed his eyes and let his forehead fall to rest on Bond’s temple. “Oh, gods,” he said with a delicious shiver. “Uh, it’s been a long time. Just — start slow.”

“We have two weeks,” Bond said, pressing kisses along Q’s jaw and down to his throat. “Or we can call Mallory and tell him to sod off, we’re busy. We can defect to America,” he said with a little laugh. “Perhaps I’ll have better luck charming your mother than your grandmother.”

Q tipped his head back, clutching Bond’s shoulders, trying to imagine Bond in his childhood home in Connecticut. A month ago it would have been unthinkable, but now that he’d seen Bond here in the cottage, it was a much less absurd thought. “She would like you. And we could have lots of fun in New York.”

“Mmm, despite all the things I’d like to do to her son?” Bond asked quietly, breath warm on Q’s ear. His hand slipped down between their bodies, fingers teasing over Q’s abdomen, shifting the water currents over his skin.

Q shivered again, torn between holding perfectly still so Bond wouldn’t stop, and moving to encourage him to go further. The water began to feel cooler around Q, but he didn’t know if it was because it was cooling, or if it was because his skin was heating up. He settled for ducking his head to kiss at the edge of Bond’s jaw — just enough movement to be encouraging without interrupting Bond’s movements.

The first brush of fingers over his cock was electric, stealing his breath. Bond nipped at his throat, licked over his pulse, then moved back for a kiss, fingers teasing without any pressure at all. The kiss was a possessive, demanding contrast to the soft swipe of his fingers.

Q tried to kiss back, but the effort was sloppy and distracted, given how thoroughly his attention was diverted. He suddenly decided he wanted a lot more physical contact than their present positions allowed, so he pulled back. He tugged and pushed at Bond until they had switched places, and pushed Bond up against the back of the tub. Then, without any hesitation or bashfulness, he crawled into Bond’s lap to claim another kiss over Bond’s laughter.

“If you’re warmed up, we could always move this to the bed,” Bond suggested, dropping his hands to Q’s hips to pull him close. “Or at least the bathmat.”

Q thought that was a marvellous idea — the bedroom, not the bathmat — but he didn’t want to stop long enough to move. He leaned over Bond to kiss and nip at his throat, then gave an experimental roll of his hips, the effort brushing their cocks lightly against each other. He groaned and shuddered and sucked a hard kiss just below Bond’s ear. “Okay,” he said breathlessly.

Bond tightened his arms around Q’s body and rose, getting one hand under his arse to support his weight. It was an effortless display of his strength, though he took care not to walk, probably for fear of tripping. “You feel _wonderful_ ,” he muttered against Q’s shoulder.

Q held tighter, not caring in the least that he was being carried. It was almost too much, to think that Bond wasn’t running from him, wasn’t demanding anything from him. He’d heard the story of his parents’ early years together from his grandmother, and never failed to wince at the way his father had behaved towards his mother. It was one of the reasons he’d never bothered with mortal relationships — he didn’t want to be caged by the ignorant fear of someone who just didn’t understand.

Not that he was holding his breath for this, whatever it was, to last. But for now, tonight, he didn’t have to worry about anything but making sure they both felt as good as humanly possible.

Holding Q more securely, Bond carefully stepped out of the tub. He started to set Q down, and then he stopped, saying, “You mentioned telekinesis,” without ever stopping his exploration of Q’s shoulder and throat.

Q hummed in acknowledgement, scratching his nails lightly over Bond’s back.

Bond hummed thoughtfully and then muttered, “If you can get the drain and the door, I don’t have to put you down.”

Q didn’t hesitate, though he did, with effort, sharpen his focus to read Bond’s body language. He waved at the tub to release the drain, then snapped at the door to unlock it. Another twitch of his fingers had the door swing open, and Q tensed, waiting for Bond’s reaction. Hearing about something was one thing — actually witnessing it was something entirely different.

But Bond barely seemed to notice, except for the subtle tensing of his shoulders — the same reaction he’d have to any noise he didn’t directly create. Then he carried Q into the cooler hallway and quickly to the bedroom. Instead of asking Q to close the door, he kicked it shut, dropped Q onto the bed, and crawled on top of him, heedless of how they were both soaking the blankets.

“I should have asked before,” Bond said, pulling a corner of the blanket up to drag it over them both. “Can you wait until afterwards for dinner?”

Q immediately tugged at Bond’s shoulders to hold him in place, and caged Bond’s hips with his knees. He was tempted to threaten Bond with turning him into a rabbit if he stopped, but this was all still too new. So he reached up to bite at Bond’s ear and whispered, “Please don’t stop.”

All but purring, Bond lifted his head, pushing into the bite. “Whatever you’d like, Quartermaster.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Friday, 3 May 2013**

Five of the seven cats were lounging in the kitchen, occasionally stealing bits of foil or getting footprints in flour. Q’s other uncle, Balthazar, was clinging to his shoulders, claws dug into the warm jumper Q had confiscated from Bond. “That’s not Scottish,” Balthazar declared critically as Bond slid a tray of biscuits out of the oven. “Scottish is sheep. What’s that stuff they eat, from the guts?”

“What’s he saying?” Bond asked without turning back as he started to transfer the shortbread biscuits onto a cooling rack.

“That his knowledge of Scottish cooking is limited to haggis, but so far he’s impressed,” Q said, eyeing the biscuits.

Bond laughed over Balthazar’s disgusted hiss. “Let’s see your magic do better,” he challenged as he slid the last of the biscuits onto the rack. He put the baking tray aside and went to check on the chocolate that was melting on the hob.

Q straightened and picked Balthazar up off his shoulder to set on the floor. He got up to wander over to the recipe still pulled up on Bond’s mobile, and scanned the ingredients list and directions. He stopped when he got to the part about dipping them in melted chocolate, allowing his imagination to run wild for a moment.

Transferring the spoon to his other hand, Bond put his free arm around Q’s waist and pulled him close as he continued to stir the melting chocolate. Behind them, Q heard the sound of something hitting the floor; one of the cats had probably stolen the biscuit cutter. Then Bond leaned the spoon against the side of the bowl and touched the chocolate with one finger. When it apparently didn’t burn his fingertip, he scooped up a tiny bit and held it up to Q’s lips.

Over the course of the last four days, Q had slowly started to become more comfortable with intimacy with a mortal. There had been a few incidents — like when Q had tried to turn off the lights with his magic and his somewhat excited state meant that he’d just managed to blow the fuse instead — but the result was that Q didn’t feel any reason not to shamelessly lick the chocolate off Bond’s finger while still planning his spell. He pulled back with a wicked grin at the same time he snapped his fingers, and a second pan of biscuits appeared next to the first.

Bond twitched in surprise, eyes drawn to the sudden appearance, though that was just his normal flinch-reflex. He arched a brow and looked back at Q. “Oh, _really_?” he asked, swiping his finger over the chocolate again.

“It’s the same mixing of ingredients and cooking process, just condensed into a significantly shorter time period, and using fewer actual tools,” Q said with a shrug, grabbing at Bond’s hand to pull it close. He smiled at Bond and started licking obscenely at the chocolate, running his tongue over the pad, nipping at the knuckle when he was done.

“Mine are better,” Bond declared, though his voice was low and no longer quite so challenging. He dragged his fingertip over Q’s teeth and across his bottom lip. “I’ll bet you can tell the difference.”

“Oh really?” Q asked with a raised eyebrow. “You haven’t even tasted mine yet. How could you possibly know?”

“Mine’s a family recipe. That automatically makes them better.” Without releasing Q, Bond reached out to get a biscuit from an earlier batch. He dipped half into the chocolate and lifted it carefully, twisting it to catch the drips. He brought it up to Q’s mouth, then blew on it, saying, “They’re best warm. Is it still too hot?”

Q leaned in and gave the shortbread an experimental flick of his tongue to test the temperature. When it didn’t burn, he took a bite, careful to lick the extra chocolate and any crumbs from Bond’s fingertips. “Delicious,” he said with honest appreciation.

Bond licked at Q’s lips before kissing him properly. “Close your eyes,” he whispered.

With the rather alarming lack of hesitation Q had been showing since Bond discovered his secret, Q closed his eyes. It was so nice to just trust, to relax and let Bond have his way — even if the wanting and indulging in it was going to hurt later, when it was gone.

Bond moved again, and then Q felt the touch of warm, molten chocolate on his lips. He bit and tasted and nibbled all the way up to Bond’s fingers. Bond laughed softly and leaned in close to whisper, “Mine or yours?”

Q was about to open his mouth to say Bond’s — they _almost_ tasted exactly the same — but for an odd undercurrent of after-flavour that hadn’t been there the first time. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was inarguably there.

“Mine,” he admitted. “Not different in a bad way,” he defended. “Just different.”

“Different,” Bond said, and the next touch Q felt was another kiss. The arm around Q’s body tightened, pulling him against Bond’s body as the kiss deepened. Two cats started laughing, and Q silently made a mental note that they’d get cold tuna tonight. Then Bond released the kiss and said, “There’s nothing wrong with different.”

Q snapped his fingers again so that his batch disappeared in a puff of smoke, feeling perhaps the slightest bit of a tingle running through his skin. “You’re taking this all _very_ well, James,” Q couldn’t help but say, feeling lazy and brave with affection as he refused to break skin contact. “I’ve never told anyone before, but I always imagined the reaction would be much less... accepting.”

“It doesn’t change who you are,” Bond said thoughtfully. “If anything, your genius with computers is more remarkable than the fact that you can do magic.”

“Thank you,” Q said quietly, nuzzling into Bond’s shoulder. “It’s just that — well, I expected an interrogation. Or accusations that I could have done things...” Q stopped when he realised what he was saying, and shook his head. “Not you, specifically. I mean, I always thought that if someone at MI6 found out, they’d want to know why I didn’t just snap my fingers and make everything perfect. Not that I can of course. It doesn’t work that way.”

Bond turned to face Q, smiling a little sadly. “And if Alec and I could just kill everyone who stands against us — burn them down and salt the earth — England would be safe. But that doesn’t make that the _right_ thing to do.”

“It’s quite an interesting problem, really,” Q said thoughtfully. “The line between what can be done and what should be done. Bringing a plate of cookies into existence isn’t really such a big deal. But a house, or a ship, or anything big... the energy transfer is a much trickier balance to navigate. Not to mention that it would bring down the wrong kind of attention. And compared to a lot of witches and warlocks, I’m not actually that powerful. I’m half-human, after all.”

“And yet, for a half-warlock, you can’t make better biscuits,” Bond teased, grin returning.

Q huffed and thumped Bond in the shoulder. “How do you know? You didn’t even try one,” he said with a grin as he finally pulled back. He went over to the coffee maker, thinking coffee and shortbread might just make the most delicious dessert he’d had in a long time.

“You” — Bond hesitated and finally gestured indistinctly before he picked up the spoon and went back to stirring the chocolate — “disappeared them. I never had a chance.”

Q pulled the filter basket out and took it over to the sink to rinse. “I didn’t want to share the chocolate,” he confessed with a grin. “I’d rather there be leftovers than spread it thin on supposedly sub-par biscuits.”

“And if there’s any leftover chocolate, I can think of far better things to do with it.” Bond took the bowl of melted chocolate out of the pot of simmering water and set it by the biscuits so he could start dipping them.

“Oh, _that’s_ original,” Balthazar said, hopping up onto the counter next to the coffee pot. “You’ve had your dinner. Where’s ours?”

Q scowled down at the cat. “Cold tuna in _water_ ,” he said with a huff, finishing the coffee preparation. “Don’t think I didn’t hear the clatter of the cutter. And if I turn around, will there be any butter left?”

“Butter is best suited for refined palates,” Balthazar said disdainfully.

“What’s he yowling about now?” Bond asked.

“Yowling? _Yowling?_ ” Balthazar yowled.

“Food, in true cat fashion,” Q said with a huff. He flicked a finger at the cupboard door to open it, then called over a stack of cans for the cats. “You know, technically, my uncles retained their magic. But without hands or fingers or the use of human language, they just can’t use it.”

“That’s probably for the best — at least for us,” Bond said. He turned and took two steps over to Q, so he could brush a chocolate-covered fingertip over Q’s lips. “Safer that way, don’t you think?”

Q closed his eyes and indulged in licking the chocolate off Bond’s fingertip, curling his tongue around it and caressing. Not caring that Balthazar was waiting, tail flicking impatiently, Q sucked Bond’s finger into his mouth before pulling back to release it with a quick kiss to the fingertip.

“Coffee,” Bond said, tapping his finger against Q’s mouth. “Then we can have dessert in the living room. _Without_ the cats.”

“He’d better not think he’s throwing us off our sofa,” Balthazar said threateningly, flexing his claws out.

“I can lock them out,” Q reassured Bond. “Let me just...” He pressed the on button to the coffee machine then gathered up the tins of seafood. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll get the biscuits,” Bond said, and went back to the trays.

Balthazar leaped onto Q’s back, scrambled, and got up onto his shoulder. “Slow down!” he scolded Q. “And one of those is salmon, isn’t it? I can’t read without my glasses.”

Q shrugged, though the result was that that Balthazar’s claws scratched though the jumper. “I didn’t check,” he said. He wiggled his nose at the back door to get it to open, then let it slam shut behind him. “And we _are_ taking over the couch. You can have it back after we’re gone.”

Balthazar huffed, tail lashing against the back of Q’s neck. “Fine. But that had better be salmon,” he said, peering suspiciously down, front paws braced against Q’s chest. “At least you’re better now.”

“Better?” Q asked absently, lining up the tins on the rock wall and pulling off the lids, one by one. “I didn’t forget to feed you when I first got here. And Paul caught me before I actually did try to get you to eat tuna in water.”

“Better! Stronger. More relaxed.” The cat craned his head around to glare at Q before he hopped off onto the garden wall where Q fed the cats. The rest of them had already rushed out of the house through the many cat doors installed in the walls. “You’re happier.”

“Oh yes, let’s get relationship advice from _Balthy_ ,” Uncle Paul said as he jumped up from the other side of the low wall. “You had what, five ex-wives? Six?”

“It would’ve been six, but cats can’t sign divorce papers,” Balthazar admitted.

“Yes, well, my incredibly perceptive sister does seem to know just when to force a vacation on me, doesn’t she?” Q chuckled. “MI6 is stressful. Perhaps I should arrange regular holiday exchanges with her just to help keep my sanity in check.”

“Not that,” Balthazar said, watching as Q used another touch of magic to open and distribute the cans. The cat hissed, ears laid back, to unnecessarily lay claim to his own can. “Your pet mortal.”

“Since when do you notice mortals?” Uncle Paul demanded incredulously.

“He’s not my pet. He got assigned guard duty and we decided to make the most of it.” Q smiled at the little grey tabby who was winding herself around his ankles and bent to pet her. “Useful, timely, and wonderful — but short term.”

“You say that —”

Uncle Paul interrupted, “Will you stop lecturing the boy?”

“Lecturing! I’m not lecturing,” Balthazar countered.

“You’re lecturing. That’s what you always did. Lecture. Why do you think you’ve got so many ex-wives?”

Thinking it best to leave them to it, Q backed away quietly, heading for the house. With another wiggle of his nose, he sealed all the cat doors so there would be no epic cat versus human struggle for the couch. He made it back to the door and closed it quietly behind him, still vaguely listening to the bickering of Paul and Balthazar in between bites of seafood. “Cats,” he muttered under his breath with a shake of his head.

“Clear,” Bond called from the living room. Q stopped in the kitchen to pick up the carafe of hot coffee and a couple of mugs. He found Bond had kicked off his shoes and sprawled on the sofa, with a plate of shortbread and the bowl of melted chocolate on the table nearby. Bond met Q’s eyes and smiled, holding out a hand to him.

Q grinned and kicked off his own shoes. He set the carafe and mugs on the table, then stopped on the way to the sofa to pull one of the hand-woven blankets free from its tangle over the back of one of the chairs before settling against Bond. “Did you find a TV?”

“Not a single one in the whole house, as far as I can tell,” Bond said with a shrug as he put his arm around Q’s shoulders. “Can you make one, or are they too complicated?”

“I can’t make one, but I could probably call one over from my... oh, never mind. I haven’t had a telly in a few years, actually. I could probably get yours here, but my memory of your flat isn’t perfectly accurate, so it might be missing some pieces by the time it gets here.” Q closed his eyes and tried to remember the exact size and position of the television in Bond’s tiny little flat.

Bond laughed and distracted Q with a kiss. “In this case, none is better than half. I’ll just have to distract you myself,” he said, reaching out to the table for a biscuit. None of the ones he’d arranged on the platter were chocolate-dipped. He took care of that now, and held up the warm, still-dripping biscuit to Q. “Quickly.”

Q ducked his head to catch the drippy chocolate, though he made the mistake of licking his lips before eating the biscuit. The chocolate dripped on his mouth, and he laughed, eating the rest of the shortbread quickly, so he could swipe the chocolate from his lips with his tongue. “Sorry,” he said with grin. “This might take some practice.”

Bond tugged Q closer to chase his tongue, licking his bottom lip. Somehow, Q ended up in Bond’s lap, a strong arm around his waist to trap him there. “We have all night,” he said, holding Q as he leaned forward. This time, he used the biscuit to scoop far too much chocolate and held it up, scattering droplets all over their clothing as he lifted it above Q’s lips.

With a laugh, Q stretched up to reach the biscuit, holding his tongue out to catch any dripping chocolate before he made it to the confection itself. He licked all around the shortbread, and Bond’s fingers, before finally biting the end.

Then, before he could speak, Bond shifted the arm around Q’s waist and leaned him down until he rested against the arm of the sofa. He ducked his head and nudged at Q’s throat so he could lick and kiss down to Q’s chest. Then, with the sort of playful laugh Q never imagined hearing from a trained assassin, Bond nipped at Q’s shirt and tugged at the fabric.

“You should take this off. You’re a mess,” he said, lifting his head to grin at Q.

Q didn’t bother pretending that he didn’t want exactly the same thing — he sat up just far enough to rip the jumper, and the t-shirt underneath, free in one hard tug. He hadn’t taken his glasses off first, so they sat skewed on his head as he fell back against the couch, and his hair tingled with the slightest bit of static.

The next biscuit didn’t make it anywhere near his mouth until Bond had left a line of chocolate drips up Q’s chest. “Oops,” Bond said unashamedly as he held the biscuit up to Q’s mouth.

Q laughed and braced himself up on his elbows to take a bite of the biscuit. He didn’t lean back down once he’d gently nipped and sucked the last bits of it free from Bond’s hand, but let his head fall back to arch his chest. Bond ducked and licked delicately at the chocolate drops, sucking heat to the surface of Q’s skin at each one before he moved up higher. At some point, he went off-script and mouthed at Q’s nipple, turning the tingling to fire as he licked and sucked.

With a shudder, Q braced himself on one elbow so he could thread a hand through Bond’s hair. “That’s cheating,” he murmured quietly, eyes closed to better enjoy the sensation.

Bond hummed against Q’s skin and paused long enough to say, “You know me. I always cheat. It just happens” — he licked again, a hard, hot swipe over Q’s nipple — “that it’s to your benefit.”

Q’s trembling increased to the point where he couldn’t quite hold himself up on his elbow anymore, so he fell back against the sofa with a groan. He shifted to fit better under Bond, bringing one leg up to press against Bond’s side. “Benefit, yes,” he said breathlessly. He had a moment’s twinge of regret that soon the benefit would be extended to someone else, but they still had time — just over a week — for Q to enjoy this.

With a graceful twist, Bond lifted up just enough to slide Q off his lap and flat onto the sofa. He got on top of Q and kissed at his throat while he reached out. When he brought his hand back, he swiped a warm, sugary line of chocolate over Q’s skin, from his collarbone down to his navel. “You can always tell me to stop,” he pointed out as he started to lick his way down with brief, soft flicks of his tongue.

“Not likely,” Q huffed out disbelievingly. He shivered under Bond, tempted to just magic away their clothes. But Bond was right — they had all night. There was no reason to rush. “Not that I’m complaining, but you always do the work. Did you want me to do anything?”

“I wouldn’t call this _work_ ,” Bond said. He crawled back up Q’s body, though, not caring that it left chocolate trapped between his shirt and Q’s skin. “Is there anything _you_ want? You’ve been very undemanding to this point.”

“Oh, I think you’ve got me thoroughly figured out,” Q said with a smirk. He wrapped his arms under Bond’s and pulled him down for a kiss, slow and gentle, taking the time to lick every last bit of chocolate out Bond’s mouth.

Bond laughed as the kiss broke, and he propped up on one hand so he could trace the other down Q’s chocolate-smudged chest. “Now you’ve made a mess of my shirt,” he mock-complained.

Q laughed and looked critically at the shirt. “Well, there are two things I could do in restitution,” Q said thoughtfully. “Clean it,” he said, eyeing the chocolate stains, “or make it go away.” He snapped his fingers and the chocolate disappeared. He stared for a minute, pretending to be contemplative, then shook his head. “I think I like my other idea better.” Then, with a nose wiggle, the shirt vanished.

After a startled flinch, Bond laughed and settled down on top of Q for a long, lazy kiss. “If you do that to my favourite pair of jeans — the ones with the ripped knee — we’re going to have words, Quartermaster,” he threatened, though he was grinning at the time, so it hardly counted.

“Oh, it’s not gone, gone,” Q assured him, shifting so their bodies fell into a better alignment. “It’s still clean, and in one piece, folded on the end of the bed.” He took advantage of the now accessible skin to drag his hands up Bond’s back, enjoying the warm, firm shift of muscles under his fingertips. “I wouldn’t actually damage anything. Not on purpose, anyway,” he added guilty, thinking of his near miss with the homophobic old lady.

“You are _incredibly_ useful, Quartermaster,” Bond said, going for Q’s throat again. As he licked and kissed and settled deliberately against Q’s body with a little press of his hips, he added, “You’d be _more_ useful if you’d given me that briefcase with the built-in flamethrower on my last mission, but I can be convinced to forgive that lapse.”

Q wanted to snort — there was _no way_ he was going to give Bond a flamethrower on a mission in a first world country — but it suddenly occurred to him that, oddly enough, Bond wasn’t asking for anything magical. In fact, Q realised as he pushed his hips up to return Bond’s pressure, Bond hadn’t _once_ asked him to do anything magical at all to make his own life easier. No suggesting that Q just create a feast for them so he wouldn’t have to cook, no suggesting that they skip rounding up the sheep or gathering eggs in favour of Q doing it from the house.

At first blush, Q thought it was rather concerning. Perhaps it meant that the whole concept was disturbing to Bond. Did he have trouble reconciling it to the world he’d grown up in, where the laws of physics applied without question? Was he enjoying himself now, with Q, but secretly waiting for the holiday to end so he could forget about this one strange, but potentially life-altering, aspect of Q?

But Q couldn’t bring himself to believe any of that. Though he hadn’t done anything outrageous, Q wasn’t hiding his magic anymore. Small things, like the biscuits and the shirt, were as natural to him as breathing, and Bond didn’t flinch away or react badly. What Q wanted to believe was that Bond didn’t want to take advantage of him.

“Useful is good,” he finally said.

Bond grinned against Q’s skin, kissed his chest, and then lifted his head enough to meet Q’s eyes. “And a flamethrower is almost always useful. Remember that in future,” he said, eyes bright.

Q ruffled his hair. “So are agents who are _not_ in jail for causing trouble just to see pretty, pretty fire,” he shot back.

Unable to maintain even a hint of solemnity, Bond broke into laughter, burying his face against Q’s shoulder. “You know me so well,” he said between laughs. “I should warn you, Alec will probably ask you for one next. I’d be _very_ jealous if you gave a flamethrower to him instead of me.”

“He’s just as bad as you are,” Q accused fondly, continuing his caresses over Bond’s back. “Honestly, why do we even _have_ flamethrowers? What on earth was Boothroyd thinking? I’m sure I can come up with something much less flashy and much more targeted.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Bond lifted his head to kiss Q’s cheek, and then grinned much less dangerously. “I know what we haven’t done,” he said, twisting their bodies around and lifting Q so they switched places, with Q sprawled on top of Bond, body trapped between his legs. With a satisfied sigh, Bond ran his hands up Q’s back and into his hair, tickling his nape. “I would very much love to feel you inside me. Interested?”

Q couldn’t hide his surprise. “Really?” he asked, looking down.

“Unless you mind,” Bond said, a bit uncertainly. “We don’t have to, if you’d rather not.”

“I would,” Q assured him, grinning. “It’s just, this is my first time with a mortal man — I thought men like you always had a preference.”

“Men like me?” Bond said, sounding a touch disappointed. His hands stilled on Q’s back, though he didn’t try and pull away.

Q looked down, surprised. “Strong. Powerful. Always in control.”

Bond slid his hands down Q’s body and shook his head. “This isn’t a mission, Q. It’s not about control. It’s about what feels good — what we want to do.”

It didn’t take long for Q to realise this was more than just about who was on top — it was a matter of trust. Bond trusted Q to make him feel good, to not take advantage. Even though, perhaps for the first time, Bond understood just how easily Q could just take what he wanted, if he were so inclined. Q wasn’t physically strong, but with his magic...

A thrill ran through Q at what Bond was offering, and he lifted himself from Bond’s chest just far enough to kiss him. “Do you want to go to bed?” he asked softly, thinking that if they didn’t, he would at least have to cover the couch with a sheet, or his sister was going to be annoyed with him.

Bond glanced at the coffee table, then grinned at Q. “No coffee, after all? Have you had enough dessert?”

“Only in the sense that I’m ridiculously full,” Q accused playfully. “I swear you’re just trying to fatten me up for the challenge of it.”

“You’ve been doing more physically in the last four days than you probably have all year, considering you never leave your office,” Bond teased. “Should I carry you to bed so you don’t have to walk? I don’t want you exhausted.”

Q huffed and stood, tugging Bond up with him. “Try not to get in so much trouble, and I won’t have to be stuck in my office so much,” he suggested. He let go of Bond’s hand when they got to the bedroom so he could free himself from his jeans and pants. Then flopped on the bed and lay on his side, waiting.

Bond shoved his own jeans and pants down, kicking free of the fabric as he crawled into the bed, shoving the blankets away. He pressed close to Q, sliding one leg up over Q’s thighs. “You fit so comfortably,” he murmured against Q’s neck as he bit lightly. He pushed his hips against Q’s and inhaled sharply.

Q rolled fully on top of Bond and smiled softly down at him. “We do fit together pretty well, don’t we?”

“We do,” Bond said, bending his knees to rest his feet on the mattress, holding Q’s hips. He slid his hands up Q’s back to comb through his hair. “No regrets that I’m not a warlock, like you?”

“No,” Q said immediately, shaking his head. “For a lot of reasons that I can explain some other time, if you like. But I like you just the way you are.”

Bond smiled up at him. “Then go ahead. Show me this magic of yours,” he said, unafraid.

Q smiled down, delighted, and wiggled his nose just for fun, without any magic. “We will. But first...” With a smirk, Q slid down Bond’s body and started kissing his chest. “First I have some exploring to do.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Sunday, 12 May 2013**

“Adam? Psst.”

Waking to Tabitha’s voice whispering in his ear was far from Q’s preferred way to come out of sleep, especially when that sleep was potentially his last chance to be in Bond’s arms. He’d refused to think about the end of their holiday, but last night — late, late last night, when he’d finally given in to the need to sleep — all he could think was that it was Sunday. Two weeks. They’d drive back to London today and go back to work tomorrow.

“Go away,” Q muttered, turning his head to cover his face with Bond’s arm. “Tired.”

Bond tensed and asked, “Q?”

“Shit,” Tabby muttered, and Bond relaxed again. Then Tabby was there, visible, and said in her normal voice, “Sorry. I thought he was asleep.”

“James, are you asleep?” Q whispered.

“He is now,” Tabby answered, ruffling Q’s hair. “So hey, I’m home. Should I go knock? Please tell me you’re wearing underwear.”

Q gave her his best ‘don’t be ridiculous’ stare and pulled the blanket up tighter. “How deeply did you put him under, and how long will it last?”

“Kinda deep,” she admitted. “Very twitchy, isn’t he?”

“Secret agent,” Q said with a huff. “Don’t knock. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay.” She ruffled his hair again and walked out in a blur of colour only half-visible without glasses. Then she peeked back in and said, “I’ll drop the don’t-wake-up in two minutes. Otherwise, he might still be snoring when you get back to London.”

“Fine,” Q said, waving his arm from under the comfortable warmth of the duvet. “Jus’ a minute.”

As soon as he was sure she was gone, Q sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He had absolutely no interest in leaving the warm bed, but Tabby could be persistent when she wanted to be. He snapped his fingers to get himself dressed in running trousers and a comfy T-shirt before padding quietly to the door. He opened it quietly, cast one last look at Bond’s sleeping form, and regretfully shut the door behind him.

“What couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning?” he asked Tabby, trying to decide between coffee and tea. “What time is it anyway?”

“Seven-thirty. Since when do you sleep in like this?” she asked, poking at his arm before she sat down on the floor. The cats were already swarming — all but Uncle Paul and Balthazar. She was wearing a kitschy T-shirt with a dead cowboy skeleton and a prickly cactus emblazoned with _It’s a dry heat!_ across the top, and her normally fair skin was tanned.

“Since I’ve been trying to get in as much relaxation as possible,” he said with a wicked little grin he knew she’d understand immediately. Seven-thirty. Coffee it was. “How was your holiday?”

“Hot. It’s already over a hundred in Atlantis. But I managed to get some of the firedragon cactus seeds that are supposedly extinct,” she said, grinning at him from beneath a coat of cats. “How’s _your_...” She trailed off meaningfully and gave Q a wicked grin. “Did he do as I told him?”

“And so much more,” Q said with a sigh as he rinsed the filter basket and pot. “It’s been amazing. He’s amazing. And we didn’t let anything of yours die.”

“Bonus. You know how Mom hates necromancy.” Tabby rolled her eyes. “One little George Romero movie, and suddenly a whole discipline becomes taboo.”

Q laughed, perhaps a bit too loudly, and slapped his hand over his mouth, darting a glance down the hallway. Bond didn’t have a problem with not getting a lot of sleep, but Q didn’t want to deprive him of the opportunity. “I’d really rather not have to deal with a zombie apocalypse on top of my usual world-ending crises, so I’m afraid I have to side with mom on that one.”

With a grin, Tabby got up, scattering cats everywhere. “So, does this mean that you’re going to be inviting him to Mom’s birthday dinner? You two looked awfully cosy.”

Q swallowed and pulled the coffee and filters from their spot on top of the microwave. “We each knew what we were getting into — a mutually pleasant holiday, and that’s it. He’s an agent. He can’t really do relationships.”

“Well, you can fix that,” she said, frowning at the coffee pot. “Is that new?”

“I’d like to fix it,” Q confessed. He measured out coffee grounds and tucked the filter basket back in. “He knows about me. About us. Magic.”

Her brows went up. “Oh. Well, in that case,” she said, and twitched her nose. The coffee pot hissed with steam rising from the full carafe. “How’d he take it? He doesn’t look all irritated, like Dad always got. Or was that because of whatever you two did last night?”

Q waved a dismissive hand. “Sex doesn’t have anything to do with it. Though...” He turned and grinned at Tabby. “Can I just say? Wow. Wow, Tabby. It’s been... you never told me it could be so good with a mortal. He’s _so_ much better than Taliesin ever was. Not just sex — everything really. But, _wow_.”

Snickering, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. “So, you’re keeping him. Right?” she asked over the sound of the bedroom door.

“The choice isn’t mine,” he said quietly.

She huffed in disgust and turned as Bond stepped into sight in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing only his jeans, and by the way he was keeping his hand hidden by the doorway, Q knew he was carrying his gun.

“Morning, sunshine,” Tabby said cheerfully.

Bond looked suspiciously from Tabby to Q. “Morning,” he said dryly, and went back down the hallway.

Q chuckled and pulled two coffee cups down from the cupboard. “You’re keeping this here,” he told Tabby. “I love it here, but I can’t be here without coffee.”

“Store it in the attic. I hate clutter,” she said, still looking thoughtfully at the doorway. “That’s a _very_ nice view. Is the other half just as nice?”

“Yes,” Q said simply as he made coffee for both him and Bond. Then he paused and turned. “Did you _really_ go to Atlantis?”

“It’s not nearly as nice as it should be,” she complained. “I mean, the shopping’s fantastic, but the food... I had heartburn the whole time. ‘Spice’ is not a food group.”

“I heard they’re doing _amazing_ things with fibre optics and glass piping for long range underwater communication.” Q gave a wistful sigh. “I would love to go some time. When I have the time.”

“ _Make_ the time. You’re too busy with this new job of yours,” she criticised. “You’re working yourself half to death, like Dad. Live a little.”

“And do what?” Q said with annoyance. “I _like_ what I do. This is all well and good, but I would have been bored out of my mind if James hadn’t been here. It’s not like Dad, who had a family to come home to, or a wife to travel with. I don’t have anything but work. And you’re one to talk. You went seed-hunting on your vacation, Tabby. Don’t pretend you’re not just as bad as me.”

Pointedly, Tabby looked in the direction of the bedroom. “Have you _talked_ to him about it?”

“Why? I’m not his responsibility. I don’t want to guilt him into anything he didn’t sign up for.”

“It’s not about _responsibility_ , you twit,” she said, moving to sit next to him.

“All he offered was two weeks,” Q said with a sigh, sipping at his coffee. “And he’s made it pretty clear that he doesn’t do relationships. With him knowing everything, I’d like to. But I just... I just don’t want him to feel like he _has_ to do anything.”

“It’s a relationship, not bidding on eBay.” She turned as the bedroom door closed. “Want me to do it instead?”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Q said, glaring at her. “Stay out of it, Tabitha. I mean it.”

She smiled sweetly, and then she turned that sweet smile as Bond walked in, now regrettably wearing a T-shirt and his boots. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks.” She beamed at him. “Adam was just telling me how much fun he had.”

Ignoring her, Q got up and walked over to Bond. He gave him a quick kiss, then handed him a cup of coffee. “Morning. Sorry if we woke you.”

“Or _didn’t_ ,” Bond said suspiciously, accepting the kiss and coffee with a smile for Q. He took an empty seat at the table. “How was your holiday?” he asked Tabitha.

“Not as good as yours, I’m guessing,” she said with a sly grin. “Did you two even leave the house?”

“Oh!” Q said, suddenly remembering what they’d found on their last walk to the village. He set his coffee down on the kitchen table and walked over to the edge of the kitchen counter, where he had a stack of encyclopaedias pressing flowers. He removed the top two and brought them over for Tabby to see. “Campanula,” he said with dramatic flair, pulling off the top book to reveal the drying bellflower, pressed between wax paper, underneath. “We found a few plants during our walks.”

She hopped up to peer over his shoulder. “Oh, nice. So you _didn’t_ shag like rabbits the whole time, then?”

“We took breaks for dessert,” Bond said smoothly.

Q groaned and sat in the chair next to Bond. “Gods, Tabby. Dessert. If you’ve never experimented with chocolate sauce with any of your lovers, you really, really need to.”

Unruffled, Tabby beamed at them both. “I’m so proud of you, little brother,” she said happily, rushing to stand between them so she could hug them both. Bond shot Q a slightly baffled but amused look. “Now you _have to_ come to Mom’s birthday,” she said, looking at Bond. “She gets the best chocolate cakes from this bakery on Long Island.”

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience Adam with a Transatlantic flight,” he told her.

Q glared at Tabby, freeing his hands from the table and the coffee mug. “Tabitha,” he warned, tapping his fingers. He’d _hate_ to have to turn her into one of her own lumpy blankets until they were gone, but he would if she put any more pressure on Bond.

She rolled her eyes and retreated to pick up her coffee cup. “I’m going to go unpack. Stay as long as you like. Try not to bang into the walls too loudly,” she said before she left the kitchen.

Q groaned and let his head flop onto Bond’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he muttered. “She’s such a...” he sighed and shook his head.

“You have her, I have Alec. And I apologise in advance, since he’s probably back from the field by now. I give it four hours before the interrogations start,” Bond said apologetically.

“I’ll be appropriately stoic,” Q promised.

Grinning, Bond leaned over and kissed Q’s cheek. “I plan on telling him more detail than he ever wanted to know. Stoicism will just make him more curious. Unless you want me to not say anything at all,” he added, his smile fading a bit.

Q snuggled closer, wrapping the hand not clutching the coffee mug around Bond’s waist, even though it meant Bond had to lean forward over the table a bit to give him room. “My name and my magic are just between us,” he said with a smile. “But if he doesn’t know about the chocolate sauce, I would be horrified if you didn’t inform him.”

“Excruciating detail,” Bond promised, smiling affectionately before he kissed Q’s cheek once more. Then he sat up, though he moved his chair closer to stay in contact. “When did you want to leave?”

“Never,” Q muttered under his breath and down into his coffee mug. He was getting bored, it was true, but giving up his unlimited access to Bond was going to be excruciating. Then he took a drink of his coffee. “Whenever you want. I’m not in a hurry, though Tabby might get progressively more annoying the longer we stay.”

Bond glanced back at the doorway, a subtle tension creeping into his posture. Q never would have noticed it at the office; now, he caught it only because it had been absent for almost the entire holiday. “Earlier is probably better, in that case.” He turned back to Q and added, “If we leave in a couple of hours, we could stop in London for a late lunch or early dinner. God only knows what Alec’s done to my fridge.”

Q nodded, though the thought of driving back without having any idea of what was going to happen when they got back was a deeply uncomfortable one. He cleared his throat and set his cup down. “Tabby wasn’t kidding about the cake, you know. It’s incredible stuff.”

Bond smiled, though his gaze flicked back to the doorway again. “I apologise if I’ve complicated things between you and your sister. It’s obvious she has strong opinions,” he said carefully.

Q snorted. “Family trait, that.” He stood and picked up his mug to head back to the coffee maker. “She likes you, at least. A lot, actually.”

“Comforting to know I’m less likely to have a tail in future,” Bond said with a soft laugh.

“I would never let that happen,” Q said with a chuckle. He picked up the carafe and brought it back to the table, refilling first Bond’s mug, then his own, before setting it back down.

Before Q could sit, Bond caught him around the waist. He pushed his chair away from the table and pulled Q down onto his lap. “Do _you_ mind if I consider her offer?”

“Really?” Q asked, shifting so he could face Bond. “I mean, I would really like that, but I didn’t think... My whole family will be there, you know, and them knowing that _you_ know about us means they won’t hold back.”

“I’ve faced far worse,” Bond said confidently. “I spent how many years working for Mallory’s predecessor?”

“So true,” Q said with a shudder. “She was terrifying.” He set down his coffee cup and snuggled closer to Bond. He wanted to ask, but an uncharacteristic fear of rejection made him hesitate. “So, when we get back...”

“I won’t say anything,” Bond promised. “Not even to Alec. I won’t let anyone take you out of Q Branch.”

“Thank you,” Q said, gratified at the response, even if it wasn’t what he’d been asking. “You know,” he started again. “I think we should move your couch to my place,” he finally said.

Bond’s arms tightened around Q. He was silent for a few long, tense seconds, before he said, very carefully, “Or we could go shopping. See other options. Perhaps something with built-in recliners.”

Q’s sigh of relief was probably loud enough for Tabby to hear. “And maybe a slightly nicer colour,” he conceded. “And, of course, we’ll have to get a coffee table, too. For more sauce experiments.”

“Q...” Bond leaned back, trying to meet his eyes. “I don’t want to complicate anything for you. From what you’ve said, it was difficult for your parents. Even the cats don’t necessarily approve of —” He cut off with a startled blink, followed by a little laugh. “God, I’m talking about getting approval from _cats_.”

Q laughed and shook his head. “It’s different. You know about me, but you’re not trying to shame me for being who I am, or take advantage of me. Unlike my father, you’re not trying to change me. Make me different. That makes things _less_ complicated, not more.”

Frowning now, Bond asked, “Did he try to make you give up magic? You get along without it well enough...”

Q sighed and buried his head in Bond’s neck. “All he ever wanted was a normal life. My mom didn’t spring who she was on him until after they were married.”

“That seems unwise.” Bond turned and kissed Q, leaning back in his chair to get comfortable. He idly rubbed circles over Q’s back. “We don’t have to... I know it wasn’t your idea to have me come with you here. I don’t expect anything from you. But if this did continue... I’d like that.”

“Me, too,” Q said with a grin. “Though there are some things I should probably tell you before we get much further.”

“Are you a cat?” Bond asked, lifting a hand to pet Q’s hair. “You _do_ act like one, occasionally.”

Q laughed and shook his head. “No. Well, I can be, but no. I do have nine lives, in a manner of speaking. I, uh... I’m older than I look. By a decade or two, depending on how old you think I am.”

“I take it you’re older than you implied at our first meeting?”

Q nodded. “We’re actually about the same age.”

Amused, Bond said, “But only one of us has to show proof to buy alcohol.”

“I used to be American. I didn’t move here when I was five — I moved here in my twenties. I even used to work for the NSA,” Q continued, wanting to get the worst of it over with.

Bond tensed subtly. “But your parents are still there.”

“They moved here for a while,” Q said slowly, “when my father retired. But, no surprise, he didn’t like it. I pop back to visit them, but that’s it. I’ve lived in England longer than I ever lived in the States.”

“If you still look this young...” Bond trailed off.

“We age differently than you do,” Q said carefully. “It takes centuries for us to age. I’m going to look like this for a long time. In fact, my mother looks only slightly older than I do.”

“Centuries.” Bond took a deep breath, hands going still on Q’s body. “Q... you deserve someone who’s...” He shook his head. “I’m not even in a safe career. Alec and I have outlived most other agents because we’re too bloody stubborn, but even we can’t cheat death.”

Q took a deep breath. “Please don’t,” he pled quietly. “Of all the reasons to not stay in a relationship as good as this has been, and can be, that’s a ridiculous one. I don’t want another warlock, James.”

“And when I don’t come back from a mission?” Bond asked gently. “Or even if I do... how much longer do you think I have? Certainly not centuries.”

Q tightened his arms around Bond. “So I’m just not supposed to have this because our lifespans are different?”

“I don’t want you hurt, that’s all,” Bond insisted.

“Then don’t leave,” Q said bluntly. “We’ll be fine. It’s a choice that people like me make when we stay with a mortal. Well... you’ll see. When you meet my parents.”

“A choice — This isn’t like the elf from Lord of the Rings giving up her immortality, is it?” Bond asked tensely.

“No,” Q said, suppressing a desire to chuckle at the reference. “There isn’t anything I can do about the ageing process, for either of us.”

“Then your father... He’s still alive?”

“Yes. He’ll be seventy-five this year.”

Bond let out a breath. “And — Q...” He shook his head again. “We should go pack.” He slid his hands to rest on Q’s knee and back.

 _Well, shit_ , Q thought. Of all the things to scare Bond off, Q had never considered that the difference in the way they aged would be the one to do it. He’d handled everything else so easily, with barely a flinch — from the fact the Q was an American to the fact that he could make things disappear and reappear with not much more than a twitch of his nose.

Of course, Q’s father had had the same reaction when he’d found out about Samantha’s lack of ageing, thanks to Endora’s interference. He’d eventually got over it, but it took a day or two. Then again, Darrin had the expectation of a long and healthy life. Bond had no such expectations. In fact, for as much as he loved his work, he’d resigned from MI6 for his last love. Not just because he wanted to keep what he had left of a soul intact, but to not leave her a young widow.

But there was nothing Q could say to change Bond’s mind, and he knew it. Either Bond would make the decision to stay on his own, despite the possibility that Q wouldn’t get to keep him for more than a few decades, or he wouldn’t.

Finally, Q nodded and got up. He refilled his coffee cup one more time before giving Bond a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m going to go get eggs. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“I’ll start packing,” Bond offered. Abandoning his coffee, he left the kitchen for the bedroom.

Q didn’t immediately go outside, though, once Bond was gone. He took the cups to the sink to wash and dry, then slowly and methodically started taking apart the coffee pot to wash before it got packed away into storage.

As much as he wanted to curse himself for being an idiot, he couldn’t quite bring himself to think that this was all avoidable. One look at his parents during the party, and Bond would have had the same reaction. He would have been polite and kind through the rest of the party and, once they got home, ended it then.

Which, if Q were honest with himself, would have been much, much worse. Samantha’s birthday was June 6 — just under a month away — and in a month, Q would have let himself get very, very attached.

As if he weren’t already.

As soon as the machine was scrubbed clean and dried, Q sent it upstairs to hide in the attic. After everything that had happened, he didn’t know if he could come back by himself, but Q was nothing if not an optimist.

Q grabbed the egg basket from its hook by the door and slipped his boots on. It seemed incredibly unfair that, of all the things they could do with their magic, preserving the lives of the mortals they loved wasn’t one.

Feeling ridiculously upset, as if he’d had something fantastic in his grasp that had, despite his best efforts, managed to slip away, Q started walking out to the chicken coop. He only made it a few metres before he spotted Tabby crouched over her foxglove patch, speaking calmly to her plants. One of the heavy stalks of flowers didn’t appear to be doing to well — it was brown and spotted in a way the others weren’t, bent under its own weight as if it were too much.

Tabby said something soothing and dragged her finger lightly along the stem. As if all it had needed was the friendly touch, the flower stalk straightened centimetre by centimetre, just behind Tabby’s fingertip. In a few moments, the whole plant had been restored, and was waving as brightly in the wind as any of the others.

Q thought about Tabby’s earlier crack about necromancy and the hamster that she’d managed to keep alive for nearly thirty years. Well, not _alive_ in the strictest sense, but... the same.

“Tabby!” he shouted, diverting from his path to the coop.

She rose, dusting off her hand, and gave Q a surprised look. “Why aren’t you two giving the bed one last structural integrity test?”

“We had a talk, the good kind, where we were going to buy a couch and go to Mom’s party. But then we talked about ageing, and...” Q waved his hand with annoyance. “He’s in there convincing himself now that the best thing for me is to not be with a mortal, particularly one with such a low life expectancy.”

“Ouch,” she said sympathetically. “Did you want me to distract him while you go talk to Mom?”

“That won’t work,” he said, shaking his head. “You know Dad — selfish enough to not have the same sort of concern. He was only worried about what it would look like to be old and have a young wife. James is worried about how I’ll react when he eventually dies before I do.”

Tabby wrinkled her nose — nonmagically. “Let me guess,” she said with a sigh. “Doesn’t want to hurt you, so better to break it off now, before things really get started. Doesn’t want to learn to resent or hate you when he’s eighty and on oxygen and you look like his grandson. And — Oh. Oh, shit. In his line of work, it wouldn’t be hard at all to arrange an ‘accident’ to spare you before you’re too attached, would it?”

Q’s eyes widened and he stared at Tabby in horror. “Oh shit. Tabby. I didn’t even think of that. And he absolutely would, too.” He swallowed and sat on the ground next to the foxglove. “You have to help me.”

Tabitha sat down beside Q and took his hand in both of hers. “Are there gay tortoises? Because Galapagos tortoises live for hundreds of years.”

“Gross, Tabby,” Q huffed. “And not helpful.”

“Well, we _know_ there are gay dragons, but if I turn you two into dragons, someone’s going to notice. Especially with those mating flights. All that fire.”

“Now _that_ could be fun,” Q said thoughtfully. “But even back home we’d be hunted, so that’s probably not the wisest.” He looked up at her from where he’d been playing with one of the bells. “About your hamster...”

Tabby winced. “Yeah, that —” she started, before her eyes went wide. “Gross!” she said, letting go of Q to smack him in the arm. “Ew! I am _not_ turning your boyfriend into a zombie!”

“I don’t want a zombie boyfriend,” Q defended, rubbing his arm. “But there has to be _something_ I can do. The idiot won’t be convinced, and you know more about necromancy than I do. Isn’t there some way to keep his cells from burning out so quickly, to make him more like us?”

“Max was doing some chimaeric studies — hybrid work. He might’ve started on human hybrids, but you probably don’t want a half-tortoise boyfriend. Though a half-dragon one might be fucking _hot_. Have you seen Smauglock?” she asked with a wicked laugh.

Q shook his head, wondering how in the hell Tabby managed to know more about pop culture than he did when she didn’t even have a television. “I don’t think hybridisation is the best approach to this particular problem.”

“Okay, broad strokes first,” she said, flattening her hands on the ground as she leaned back to look up at the sun without blinking. “Human, part-human, non-human, or undead? Or hey, there’s always Faerie. You could go there. You’re pretty. They’d love you.”

“No,” Q said firmly. “That’s a lifetime of being stoned on energy. Not my idea of immortality, thanks.”

“Mmm,” Tabby said with a distant smile. “Hyralia. Absolutely gorgeous. Half-fae. I met her when I was vacationing down at the Mayan pyramids. The things she could do with flowers...”

Q plucked one of the bells from the stem of the nearest foxglove and tossed it with perfect aim to hit her on the nose. “Focus, please. He’s going to want to leave soon, and the discussion should probably happen when I have him trapped in the car.”

“Right, right. So, how human do you want him?” she asked, picking up the fallen flower to twirl it in her fingers.

“I want him to be himself. Mind completely intact. And not... physically abhorrent.”

“Is he religious? We could always find a vampire to bite him,” she offered. “As long as he doesn’t believe in Hell, he’d be fine.”

“I don’t think he’s religious,” Q said thoughtfully. “That’s actually a great idea. What else?”

“Does ‘physically not there’ count as not abhorrent?” she asked curiously. “If he dies with a strong enough focus, he’ll just hang around as a ghost.”

Q gave it a moment’s thought, then slowly nodded. “I like that. That’s actually a good idea, too. And it has the benefit of not needing to be dealt with for a while yet, as long as he doesn’t get killed on the job. I might be able to keep him the way he is for a while.”

“You could start building a focus for him, while I see if I can find a friendly vampire,” she offered. “I’m assuming you don’t want anything complicated, like the whole were-beast thing.”

“A were-beast,” Q chuckled. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea, either. I bet he’d make one sexy werewolf. And I could easily keep him locked up once a month with my magic.” He paused, feeling a little out of his depth. “How does one build a focus?”

“It’s different for everyone — not a set-spell. It’s a matter of what’s important to him. What has meaning. That’s why ghosts hang around bloodlines or objects, like my little girl’s cast iron pans,” Tabby said with a faint smile.

“Is _that_ what she’s doing here?” Q asked with surprise. “I wondered.” He looked down at the foxglove and plucked another bell free from the stamen. “Bloodlines or objects. It would be me, or Alec, I guess. He’s not attached to things, really. Material objects, I mean.”

Tabby frowned. “You could _share_ blood, I suppose. The strength of the focus equates to the strength of the ghost, which is why my poor girl is so scrambled. For years, all she’d do was point at the pans and say they were supposed to be hers. It’s taken me this long just to teach her how to talk.”

“Share blood?” Q asked with a raised eyebrow. “I suppose it’s a good thing Medical at MI6 checks us so frequently,” he said with a shudder. “But a strong focus is good. I want him to be himself, not a shade of himself.”

“I’ll see what I can find out. Can you take care of the cats for a while longer or should I just make day-trips?”

“We have to be back to work tomorrow,” Q said regretfully. He looked up at Tabby. “Thank you for this, by the way. I don’t know if it was your doing, or Mother’s, but I really, really needed it.”

Tabby got to her feet and held out her hands to help Q up. When he stood, she kissed his cheek and then hugged him tightly. “It was Grandma, actually. She said you were working too hard.”

“Should have known,” Q said, hugging Tabby back just as tightly. “I promise not to take another eight years to come back and visit.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Sunday, 12 May 2013**

As Bond carefully navigated the little sportscar around the ruts in the dirt road, he shook a cigarette out of the half-full pack. He’d only smoked half a pack in two weeks? How the hell had he not gone out of his mind?

Q, that was how. Q, a bloody warlock, damn near immortal, and Bond had fallen for him. What should have been a two-week stand turned into something more, except Bond was too old already and was absolutely unwilling to condemn Q to watch over him in the latter half of his life. Twenty years ago? Fuck, yes. But now that Bond was on the downward side of life, no longer able to bounce back from hard missions, thinking not of the next adrenaline-fuelled thrill but of the horrid possibility of retirement in some quiet country cottage? No.

He lit the cigarette and dropped the pack into his pocket, thinking this was going to be a torturous drive back to London. All he wanted to do was to reach over and touch Q, but he couldn’t. He _had_ to go back to the professional distance that had once been so easy, back before he’d ever imagined Q was even interested.

“Sorry I didn’t get around to upgrading the car. I have some ideas — I can work on it more at home,” Q said, wincing at how the car bounced over an unavoidable pit in the road. Then he was silent for a moment as Bond continued his careful navigation. “I talked to Tabby before we left,” he added quietly, looking over at Bond, eyes flicking to his cigarette before going back to his face.

There were too many possible topics of conversation for Bond to even speculate. “She seemed cheerful,” he answered neutrally, opening his window to rest his arm on the door. If the weather turned brighter, he’d put down the top. That would help.

“I gave her something interesting to do on my behalf,” Q said with a chuckle. “That always makes her cheerful.” He tugged on his seat belt so he could angle his body towards Bond, but didn’t touch him. “Can I tell you about some of the things that exist in this world that you may not know about?”

Ignoring the sharp surge of bitterness at this _other_ world where Q lived — where Q would continue to live for a very long time — Bond said, “Of course. He took the turn out onto the village road carefully. There wasn’t much in the way of wheeled traffic; livestock, on the other hand, roamed everywhere.

“Now that you know witches are real,” Q started hesitantly, gently resting his hand on Bond’s leg, “it shouldn’t surprise you to learn that ghosts and werewolves and vampires are, too.”

“That’s a bit disturbing,” Bond admitted. Witches were one thing — essentially human, as far as he was aware. Ghosts, werewolves, and vampires looked at humans as prey, at least in all the legends.

Q was silent for a moment, hand tightening on Bond’s leg. “I don’t want to upset you,” he finally said. “I’m just, uh... explaining. Options.”

Bond threw a confused glance at Q. “Options?” he asked, wondering if this was some sort of bizarre... What? A new programme for MI6, to replace the Double O’s with things that could kill and walk through walls and wouldn’t die? Was this Q’s way of offering Bond a safe, early retirement while reassuring him that someone capable could take his place?

Q cleared his throat and looked out the window. “Well, yes. Ghosts are sentience retained after death. Werewolves aren’t eternal, because they tend to kill each other off over territorial disputes. And vampires... well, immortal, obviously.”

“Convenient, not having to build a pension fund for them,” Bond muttered, taking another drag as he slowed for a few chickens. They didn’t look like Tabby’s — which was a disturbing thought. Had he actually learned to recognise Q’s sister’s livestock on sight?

“What?” Q asked, looking over at Bond with confusion. “You already have a pension. And it wouldn’t go away just because you changed... well, though, being a vampire might cause some difficulties. But I could figure something out.”

It was Bond’s turn to ask, “What?” as he completely lost the thread of the conversation. He glanced ahead, wondering if he’d lost a bit of time and skipped some essential plot point, but the chickens were still there, ambling across the road at a snail’s pace.

“Well, you couldn’t keep working at MI6 as a ghost, unless we figure out a way for you to wander for more than a mile without losing your anchor. Being a werewolf wouldn’t make any difference, except putting you out of commission a couple days a month. But being a vampire... that could be problematic. Sunshine, I mean. It’s a problem. But I could probably work something out...” Q tapped his finger thoughtfully. “A cream, maybe, or a suit. It’s just UV sensitivity, and I’m _certain_ I could come up with something to allow you to go out during the day...”

Bond listened, but Q’s words didn’t fully register until the very end. “Me?” he asked, going back through the conversation to find some sort of sense in it. But even after nearly a fortnight of knowing Q lived in both worlds — Bond’s and this _other_ world, out of mythology — he couldn’t quite reconcile crossing _himself_ into that other world.

“Well, yes. I mean, I know it’s a lot to consider. And, obviously, if you chose vampirism or lycanthropy, there would be complications with you staying in MI6. There would be a lot to figure out, but...” Q huffed and turned to fully face Bond. “You’re concerned about disparate lifespans, and I’m giving you options. I know it’s a lot to think about, and it wouldn’t mean that you would _have_ to stay with me if, someday, you didn’t want to anymore, but” — he huffed again, obviously frustrated — “they’re options.”

“Me,” Bond repeated inanely. He took another drag and pressed more firmly on the brake, not wanting to end up crushing the chickens or running the car into a ditch in his distraction. “Options. _Becoming_ a... A what? A werewolf or — _Me_?”

“You’d be a _glorious_ werewolf,” Q said with a smile. “And a gorgeous vampire, of course.”

That warranted putting the car in park. Bond unlatched his seatbelt and crushed the cigarette before he turned to face Q. “You want me to be a werewolf or a vampire,” he said. This repetition was ridiculous — he was trained to deal with the impossible, to think on his feet — but... _this_ was ridiculous. “Werewolves and vampires _are real_.”

“No!” Q objected, surprised. “Well, yes.” He shook his head. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. Yes, they’re real. There might be other ways, too... Tabby is better with necromancy, and she’s looking into it for me, but those are what we could think of.”

“Necromancy,” Bond repeated, thinking madly about all the stories he’d read twenty years ago. He had absolutely no idea how to feel about werewolves or vampires, other than the obvious, but necromancy... “Out of the question,” he said firmly. “I’ve seen _Night of the Living Dead_.”

“Tabby agreed that you wouldn’t make a very good zombie,” Q nodded. “But werewolves and vampires are not physically abhorrent. Ghosts aren’t physical at all, which itself is its own problem, but at least you would be you, and around for as long you wanted.”

Pushing past the whole _werewolf_ and _vampire_ matter — though definitely not ignoring them — Bond asked, “You — Is this — Do _you_ want me, or...” He faltered, though, because he knew the answer; he could see it in Q’s expression. He just couldn’t believe it was real.

Q glanced at the gear-lever, then slid a little closer. He took Bond’s hand and tangled it in both of his. “Yes,” Q said softly. “If we can find some way that sounds agreeable to you.”

Bond’s first instinct, to refuse, was reflexive and ridiculous, because everything else in him was testing out the thought of having Q as his own. Having Q _forever_ , even, or as near as would matter. But that thought made him say, “It’s only been a fortnight, Q. I’m not sure even six months of working together can stand up to what you’re proposing.”

“I know,” Q said with a sigh. “But you don’t have to make the decision right away. And even if you did decide, in a few years, you wanted to do something like that, it wouldn’t mean that you would have to stay with me. You’d still be yourself, just with some changes and a longer lifespan. You’d be free to leave and find another lover if you get bored of me.”

Bond didn’t hesitate to draw Q closer, cursing the centre console and gear-lever that got in the way of pulling Q into his arms. He touched Q’s face and lips before he kissed, softly, everywhere he’d touched. “But I... _we_ could try to make this work? Us?”

“Gods, yes,” Q said, relief colouring his voice as he nuzzled into Bond’s neck. “Like you said, we fit.”

Closing his eyes, Bond hugged Q as close as he could. “We do...” he agreed, though a hint of worry cut through his unexpected hope. “But... I’d — What about Alec?” he asked warily. “He’s all the family I’ve had for twenty years.”

“Oh, I can’t imagine he wouldn’t follow you headlong into whatever you decided to do,” Q said with a chuckle, tucking his fingertips into Bond’s waistband as he held tight.

“But, for a werewolf, you said once a month — the full moon, I take it,” Bond said a little irrationally, apprehensively imagining himself with fur and claws. Madly, he wondered what his tailor would say. “What about the other three and a half weeks?”

“Oh, well, that’s what I meant by stronger, faster, more resilient,” Q said. “You’d look the same — maybe a little more muscular, eyes a little more wild — but your body would be just slightly different. You’d just have to be very, very careful not to bite me hard enough to draw blood.”

“I don’t think that’s much of a problem,” Bond said a bit dazedly. “What about Medical? I don’t think the NHS has a category for werewolves, do they?”

“I doubt it,” Q said with a shrug. “I don’t know that many, to be honest, and the ones I do know had just as much a desire for privacy as we do. I could hack the records to find out.”

 _This could work_ , Bond thought, leaning back to look into Q’s eyes. “A werewolf. Werewolves — me and Alec,” he said, wondering how much vodka it would take to convince Alec that this could be real. “What’s the catch? There has to be a downside to it.”

“Well, yes. You can’t bite anyone for pleasure, ever again. And I’ll have to keep you locked up or unconscious during the full moon, at night. I don’t know how to explain to Tanner that you can’t be made useful during those days, but I’d figure something out. I’m sure there’s more, but you’d have to ask another werewolf. Tabby probably knows a few.”

Bond nodded distractedly, thinking that it might not be safe to keep working for MI6 at all — not if he could end up a test subject at Baskerville. “Silver?” he asked. “And stakes, for vampires?”

“Or beheading. Or fire. For both, actually. They’re immortal if left alone, and not as delicate as humans, but certainly not invincible.” Q unwound his hands from where he’d tangled them in Bond’s belt loops and let go to lean back against the door. “And with my magic, we could smooth over some of the average problems. Though the sunlight thing is something I have to think about. Ask around about.”

“You’d really want to do this?” Bond asked, leaning forward to run his hand over Q’s leg. “With me?”

Q swallowed and nodded. “I know it’s only been two weeks, and a little bit longer in terms of a working relationship, but I think we’re both old enough to know what we want when we see it. And I want you. And the continuance of everything we’ve had while in Wales. And if you want it too, I’ll find a way for us. I promise.”

Slowly, Bond grinned, realising it might just work. It was bloody insane, but it _might actually work_. He could actually let himself fall in love and have his closest friend and not have to feel guilty that he was selfishly destroying lives.

“A werewolf,” he said thoughtfully, grinning even more at the images that came to mind. “Accounting wouldn’t bloody well come at a werewolf for not turning in expense reports.”

“And you could eat Tanner if he got too annoying,” Q added with a smirk. “Or just pretend you were going to. I’d get it on CCTV — him running screaming down that halls as you chased him. That would be _gold_.”

Not caring that they were in a sportscar that barely fit one adult, much less two, Bond crawled as far over to Q’s side as he could. Helpfully, Q leaned forward, and Bond felt their kiss all the way to his toes. “Yes —”

A sharp rap on the windscreen startled him, and a heartbeat later, Bond twisted around, shielding Q, Walther in hand, muzzle aimed right at Q’s sister. Then the Walther was gone, replaced by a wooden toy gun, the type that snapped out a flag when the trigger was pulled.

Q’s chin poked Bond on his shoulder as he sat up to peer at his sister. “We’re thinking werewolf,” he said. “Know anyone we can talk to for details about a day in the life of?”

“That’s not ‘thinking werewolf’, unless that’s some new sex position restricted to men,” she observed unashamedly, peering through Bond’s open window. Her grin was absolutely wicked. “Maybe _doing_ the werewolf. Kind of like a reverse cowgirl —”

“Your chickens are loose,” Bond warned as he scrambled to get off Q. He reached threateningly for the window control.

“Not enough space in this tiny car,” Q said to his sister with a shrug as he straightened, though he kept his arms wrapped around Bond. “What is it?”

“Mom wants to know when you’re bringing your boyfriend over to meet her.”

Bond glanced back at Q. “Does your family always work this quickly?”

“I think you underestimate how much everyone but Endora hated my last boyfriend, and how long it’s been since I had a new one,” Q said with a small laugh. “And a mortal, too. And Tabby actually likes you. It’s all... very novel.”

“I like everybody,” Tabitha declared. “Especially since the ones I _don’t_ like get turned into garden gnomes, so they don’t count anymore.”

“Does being a werewolf grant any sort of immunity to magic?” Bond asked Q.

Q straightened and looked at Tabitha. “That’s a very good question,” he said with a thoughtful look. “On one hand, that would be absolutely lovely to keep you from being threatened by Endora and Tabby. But on the other hand, if I can’t bring you to Mother’s with me, you’ll have to fly separately and meet me there. And, well, some of the other things we did recently wouldn’t be possible anymore.”

“Plus, fleas,” Tabitha declared solemnly.

Bond couldn’t help but laugh. “Tell your mother I’d be delighted to meet her. At the moment, I need to get Adam back to London so we can find a proper couch.”

“Go for canvas. It’s more claw-proof than brocade. Or do werewolves have talons?” she asked thoughtfully.

Q waved a dismissive hand. “As if I’d just let him loose in the apartment while he was transformed. Give me _some_ credit.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You always were a little wild,” Tabby said, grinning like a shark. “Put a muzzle on him —”

“Thank you, Tabitha,” Bond interrupted, and hit the window control. He dropped his gun in Q’s lap and asked, “London?”

“Plus there’s the tail to consider,” Tabitha yelled through the closing window gap as Bond put the car into drive.

“So, I know I mentioned that we’re not as prudish as mortals when it comes to sex,” Q said as he rebuckled his seatbelt, “but she’s just gross sometimes. I want you to know that. It’s not normal, even for us.” He shook his head and picked up the toy gun.

“We’ll turn Alec loose on her. It’s a match made... in Siberia, I suppose. He’ll distract her while we get away.” Thankfully the road ahead was clear of chickens, so Bond was free to accelerate as much as he dared, conscious of the car’s suspension. In the rearview mirror, he saw Tabitha waving, still grinning fiendishly.

“Just wait until he’s a werewolf, too, so he stands a chance,” Q said with a chuckle. He dragged his finger along the gun, butt to muzzle, transforming it from wood to metal, and back to its old shape, as he went. Then he tucked it back into the holster duct-taped to the seat. “Thank you. For everything.”

Bond reached out and took Q’s hand, squeezing tight. “Just promise you’ll tell me if you get sick of me.”

“I promise,” Q said, squeezing his hand back. “And you have to promise me that you won’t stay just because you feel obligated, because I helped turn you.”

Bond lifted Q’s hand and kissed his fingers. “I can’t imagine wanting anyone else. But I promise,” he said, knowing Q needed that reassurance just as much as he did. Privately, though, he resolved to do everything in his power to make this work, no matter what.

Q’s exhale sounded relieved, and he laughed. “Oh, gods, James. This is going to be _so_ much fun.”

“Yes,” he said, kissing Q’s hand again with a laugh of his own. “Yes, it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! This was a fun one to write, especially since it was inspired by one little gif and one little comment.
> 
> We currently have no plans to turn this into a series. Past episodes of Bewitched are available on YouTube and in other places, if you want to see the original TV show from the late 60s/early 70s. Enjoy!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Bewitched](https://archiveofourown.org/works/892913) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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